WILLIAM  JOHN 
HOPKINS 


43  P  H^  tilt  am  3folm  I)  optima 


OLD  HARBOR.     Crown  8vo,  £1.25  «*/.     Post 
age  14  cents. 

THE  CLAM  MER.     izmo,  #1.25. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON   AND    NEW   YORK 


OLD  HARBOR 


BY 


WILLIAM  JOHN  HOPKINS 

Author  of  "  The  Cla.mm.er  " 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

:£be  tfibcrsiDc  press  Cambri&se 
1909 


04- 


COPYRIGHT,  1909,  BY  WILLIAM  JOHN  HOPKINS 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVE 

Published  November  7-909 


OLD  HARBOR 


OLD  HARBOR 


CHAPTER  I 

Miss  JOYCE  was  dusting  the  old  china,  the  china  that 
was  used  only  on  state  occasions.  For  it  had  been  her 
great-grandmother's  china,  and  her  wedding  china,  at 
that;  wherefore  it  was  considered  sacred,  —  it  was 
regarded  with  reverence.  It  had  always  been  sacred, 
as  far  back  as  Miss  Joyce  could  remember,  and  that 
was  beginning  to  be  a  good  while. 

As  she  took  up  the  platters,  one  after  another,  care 
fully  wiped  them,  and  put  them  back,  she  became 
thoughtful.  With  the  plates,  her  thoughtfulness  grew, 
so  that  she  stopped  now  and  then,  clasped  her  gloved 
hands  upon  the  spotless  apron,  and  contemplated  her 
possessions  gravely.  The  little  frown  below  the  hair, 
that  was  smoothly  parted  and  already  streaked  with 
gray,  grew  deeper;  then,  in  an  instant,  the  frown  had 
vanished,  and  she  laughed. 

"Well,  there!"  she  said  aloud,  nodding  her  head 
emphatically.  "I'll  do  it.  What  fun!  I'll  do  it.  And 
there's  all  the  silver,  too.  Oh,  what  fun!  And  what 
a  fool  I've  been  not  to  do  it  before!" 

And  she  laughed  again,  sitting  there  all  alone,  her 
gloved  hands  clasped  against  her  apron.  Somehow  it 

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OLD  HARBOR 


was  not  just  the  kind  of  laugh  that  one  would  have  ex 
pected  from  a  gentlewoman  who  was  beginning  to  be 
middle-aged,  as  she  thought,  and  who  always  dressed 
in  black  —  unless  one  chanced  to  notice  her  eyes. 
They  were  pleasant  eyes,  kind  eyes  that  seemed  ever 
to  have  a  laugh  just  behind  them;  and  so  it  bubbled 
out  now  in  little  ripples,  very  pleasant  to  hear,  but  low 
and  well-bred.  You  did  not  expect  anything  that  was 
not  well-bred  from  Harriet  Joyce. 

She  rose  and  went  at  the  cups  like  a  loving  whirl 
wind, —  a  very  gentle  whirlwind,  —  wiping  them  care 
fully  and  putting  them  back  tenderly.  Suddenly  she 
stopped. 

"Well,  I  never!"  she  cried.  "I'm  losing  my  seven 
senses  —  or  is  it  five  ?  They  have  to  be  washed,  of 
course,  and  I'll  do  it  now." 

She  went  into  the  dining-room,  moving  with  quick 
decision,  but  silently,  and  came  back  with  a  tray. .  For 
the  china  was  in  the  closet  of  the  back  parlor,  which 
is  not  to  be  thought  strange.  Where  else  should  one's 
great-grandmother's  wedding  china  be  ?  And  no  sooner 
was  she  back  and  setting  the  tray  down,  than  she  heard 
the  great  front  door  boom  gently.  It  always  boomed 
like  that,  even  when  it  was  shut  carefully.  She  half 
turned  her  head  to  listen ;  then,  with  a  smile,  she  turned 
back  again  and  began  to  take  out  the  platters  one  by  one. 

"Abbie,"  she  said.    "She'll  find  me." 

Presently  she  heard  somebody  in  the  next  room. 
She  called  softly: — 


OLD  HARBOR 


"Here  I  am,  Abbie,  in  the  back  parlor." 

" Oh! "  answered  a  relieved  voice.  The  door  opened 
and  Abbie  Mervin  came  in.  "I  wondered  where  you 
could  be,  Harriet.  I  've  been  nearly  all  over  the  house. 
What  in  the  world  are  you  doing?  Dusting  your  an 
cestral  china?" 

"My  ancestral  china,"  replied  Miss  Harriet,  "is 
about  to  enter  upon  a  new  career.  I've  decided  to 
use  it." 

"Why,"  said  Miss  Mervin,  wondering,  "you  always 
have  used  it  on  occasions." 

"  Yes.  But,  Abbie,"  —  Miss  Joyce  spoke  in  subdued 
tones,  —  "I  am  going  to  use  it  every  day." 

Miss  Mervin  was  silent  for  as  much  as  a  minute, 
taking  in  the  full  meaning  of  this  announcement.  Then 
she  laughed.  "Oh,  Harriet!  what  would  your  great- 
grandmother  say  to  that?" 

"My  great-grandmother,"  said  Miss  Joyce,  decid 
edly,  "  has  nothing  to  say  about  it.  Besides,  judging 
from  what  I  have  heard  of  her,  she  would  be  the  last  one 
to  want  it  kept  in  the  back -parlor  closet,  and  dusted 
every  week.  She  would  probably  think  it  was  a  sin 
and  a  shame  that  it  was  n't  all  broken  fifty  years  ago. 
Anyway,  /  think  it  is  better  to  use  it,  even  if  it  does 
get  broken,  than  to  keep  it  put  away  to  be  taken  care 
of;  and  it's  what  I  think  about  it  that's  important." 

Miss  Mervin  was  still  smiling.  "That  is  all  true 
enough,  Harriet,"  she  said.  "No  one  but  you  has  a 
right  to  say  a  word.  But  they  will,"  she  added. 

3 


OLD  HARBOR 


"Let  them,"  Miss  Harriet  retorted.  "It  was  borne 
in  upon  me,  Abbie,  as  I  sat  here,  that  we  have  too  many 
things.  A  new  thought  —  quite  new."  She  smiled. 
"  Why,  I  spend  days,  every  week,  in  keeping  things  in 
order  that  I  don't  use.  I've  got  through  doing  that. 
And  I  've  got  through  cleaning  a  lot  of  old  silver  —  it 
is  beautiful  old  silver,  too,  you  know  —  that  I  don't 
use.  It  takes  me  a  whole  morning  long,  every  week." 

Miss  Mervin  was  not  smiling  now.  "  Why,  Harriet ! " 
she  cried.  Her  voice  held  a  hint  of  horror.  "  Just  think 
how  it  will  get  to  looking  —  all  black  and  horrid.  No 
body  will  see  it,  to  be  sure  — ' 

Miss  Harriet  turned  suddenly.  "Ah,  Abbie,"  she 
said,  "but  they  will  —  the  whole  of  it.  I  am  going  to 
use  it  —  every  identical  piece.  It  will  not  be  half  the 
trouble  to  clean.  As  for  stealing,  why,  it  is  better  stolen 
than  put  away.  That  is  rank  heresy,  I  know ;  but  it 's 
what  I  think." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Mervin,  sighing,  "it's  of  no  use 
to  argue  with  you,  Harriet  — 

"  No  use  at  all,"  broke  in  Miss  Harriet. 

Miss  Mervin  went  on,  calmly,  as  though  she  had  not 
been  interrupted.  "It  would  only  strengthen  your  de 
termination.  And  I  am  not  sure  that  I  want  to  argue 
with  you.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  help  you  wash 
your  china ;  that  is,  if  you  think  I  am  to  be  trusted  not 
to  break  it." 

"Oh!"  cried  Miss  Harriet,  "will  you  help?  Take 
off  your  hat  and  gloves,  then  —  oh !  you  have  n't  got 

4 


OLD  HARBOR 


them  on  —  and  come  into  the  dining-room.  It  will  be 
a  great  deal  easier  for  two." 

Miss  Mervin  was  already  taking  off  her  hat.  She 
deposited  it  carefully  on  a  high  shelf  in  the  closet, 
above  those  occupied  by  the  china  —  a  shelf  devoted 
to  hats  and  already  occupied  by  two  of  Miss  Harriet's. 
Having  thus  settled  matters  to  her  satisfaction,  she  fol 
lowed  Miss  Harriet  to  the  dining-room. 

Miss  Mervin  was  not  a  beautiful  woman.  She  was 
not  even  a  pretty  woman.  But  little  older  than  Miss 
Joyce,  —  an  age  about  which  one  does  not  inquire  too 
closely,  —  she  had  little  of  that  lady's  daintiness  and 
charm,  although  her  nose  and  her  eyes  betokened  a 
pretty  wit  and  a  sense  of  humor  which  was  sometimes 
a  cause  of  embarrassment  to  its  owner,  if  not  to  her 
friends.  The  two  things  in  which  she  would  have  had 
a  right  to  feel  a  certain  pride  were  her  beautifully  clear 
complexion  and  her  small,  close-set  ears.  Not  that 
Miss  Mervin  did  have  any  feeling  of  pride  in  her  com 
plexion  ;  a  good  complexion  was  no  more  than  every 
lady  owed  to  her  position.  She  certainly  would  not 
have  been  willing  to  discuss  the  question,  and  if  it 
had  been  alluded  to  in  her  presence,  she  would  have 
dismissed  it  with  as  few  words  as  possible,  and  with 
a  fine  air  of  contempt  —  a  contempt  which  she  really 
felt.  As  to  her  ears,  —  well,  if  she  felt  pride  because 
they  were  her  ears,  —  the  only  regular  feature  which  a 
kind  Creator  had  vouchsafed  her,  —  she  was  to  be  ex 
cused,  perhaps.  They  were  very  dainty,  beautiful  ears. 

5 


OLD  HARBOR 


Some  such  thoughts  as  these  were  stirring  in  Miss 
Harriet's  brain  as  she  stood  behind  Abbie  Mervin, 
wiping  the  pieces  of  china  which  Miss  Mervin  had 
washed.  It  was  necessary  to  be  quick  about  it,  — 
and  quite  natural  for  Miss  Harriet  to  be  quick,  —  for 
Miss  Mervin  washed  dishes  with  a  thoroughness  and  a 
speed  which  would  have  put  the  ordinary  maidservant 
to  shame.  She  had  before  her  a  tiny  wooden  tub,  which 
had  been  reserved  for  the  silver  and  the  precious  china 
of  the  Joyce  household  since  the  beginning  of  time; 
and  pinned  about  her  dress  was  a  rubber  apron  of 
Miss  Harriet's.  Miss  Harriet,  having  in  view  only  the 
back  of  Miss  Mervin 's  neck  and  the  aforesaid  ears,  was 
surprised  to  see  a  crimson  flush  rise  from  somewhere 
below  the  ruching,  —  neither  Miss  Mervin  nor  Miss 
Joyce  had  ever  acquired  the  taste  for  shirt-waists,  — 
and  spread  until  even  the  tips  of  her  ears  were  glow 
ing  red. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Abbie?"  asked  Miss  Harriet, 
quietly. 

Miss  Mervin  turned  a  flushed  face  for  a  moment. 
"These  platters,  Harriet,"  she  said.    "They  won't  go 
into  the  tub." 

Miss  Harriet  laughed.  "Is  that  all?  Leave  them 
out,  then." 

Miss  Mervin  was  redder  than  ever.  "Of  course, 
Harriet  Joyce,"  she  said,  "  I  shall  have  to,  if  they  won't 
go  in.  But  I  guess  I  can  manage  them  well  enough  " 

Miss  Harriet  did  not  laugh  again.   She  knew  better. 
6 


But  her  eyes  were  merry.  Abbie  could  not  see  her  eyes. 
They  washed  and  wiped  in  silence  for  some  minutes, 
Miss  Harriet  still  wondering.  At  last  Miss  Mervin 
spoke  again. 

"Harriet,"  she  said,  bending  low  over  a  platter, 
"have — have  you  ever  heard  anything  of  Eben?" 

Miss  Harriet's  eyes  were  no  longer  merry,  but  in 
them  was  a  great  pity. 

"No,"  she  said,  "no.  Not  in  these  fifteen  years, 
Abbie.  It  is  fifteen  years  to-night,  since  he  —  went 
away.  Poor  Eben!"  She  sighed  as  she  laid  down  the 
dish  she  had  been  wiping. 

"  I  know,"  said  Miss  Mervin,  softly.  "  I  remembered. 
I  sometimes  think  that  your  father  was  unnecessarily 
hard  toward  Eben.  Yes,  Harriet,"  —  Miss  Mervin 
stopped  washing  platters  and  faced  Miss  Harriet,  a 
round  red  spot  in  each  cheek,  —  "  he  was  —  he  was 
positively  harsh.  You  know  he  was.  Why,  the  very 
idea  of  —  " 

Miss  Joyce  was  smiling  as  she  raised  her  hand  and 
interrupted  Miss  Mervin.  "Don't  say  it,  Abbie.  I'd 
rather  say  it  myself,  if  it  has  to  be  said.  Father  thought 
he  was  only  doing  his  duty  by  Eben.  It  was  harder  for 
him  than  for  Eben.  I  think  he  was  wrong,  and  I  always 
did,  but  he  seemed  to  take  it  very  hard  that  he  had 
to  —  to  —  " 

"Thrash  him  ?"  asked  Miss  Mervin,  quietly.  "Why 
don't  you  say  it,  if  you  prefer  to?  Oh!"  She  turned 
back  to  her  platter  again.  "  It  makes  me  nearly  sick  to 

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OLD  HARBOR 


think  of  it.  Harder  for  him  than  for  Eben !  Just  think 
how  a  man  of  twenty,  —  almost  a  man,  —  just  think 
how  he  must  have  felt  to  have  to  submit  to  that !  I  don't 
wonder  that  he  ran  away  at  once.  I  don't  wonder  that 
your  father  never  heard  from  him  again.  And  I  don't 
blame  Eben  — not  one  mite."  She  moved  quickly  away 
from  the  tub.  "It's  no  use,  Harriet  Joyce.  You'll 
have  to  wash  that  platter,  yourself.  I  shall  smash  it  if 
I  try  to.  I'd  just  like  to  smash  something!" 

There  was  nobody  else  who  would  have  been  allowed 
even  to  hint  as  much  as  that  against  her  father  in  Miss 
Joyce's  presence;  but  with  Abbie  Mervin  it  was  differ 
ent.  They  had  been  close  friends  since  before  they  wore 
pinafores.  So  Miss  Harriet  laughed;  and  there  came 
upon  the  face  of  Miss  Mervin  an  unwilling  smile. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  said.    "I  meant  it." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  said  Miss  Harriet,  "even  to  the 
occasional  desire  to  smash  things.  But  as  all  the  things 
that  happen  to  be  conveniently  at  hand  are  mine,  I 
restrain  that  impulse.  You  'd  better  try  it,  Abbie.  It  is 
a  great  builder  of  character." 

"Fiddlesticks!"  replied  Miss  Mervin,  returning  to 
her  duties. 

When  the  last  of  the  great-grandmother's  china  was 
washed,  Miss  Harriet  set  it  out  in  the  china-closets 
—  displayed  it.  For  there  were  two  china-closets,  one 
on  either  side  of  the  fireplace,  and  they  had  great  glass 
doors,  the  glass  in  diamond  panes.  And  there  was  the 
silver  to  be  got  out.  There  was  a  great  quantity  of  silver 

8 


OLD  HARBOR 


—  altogether  too  much,  one  would  think,  for  a  maiden 
lady  who  habitually  dined  alone.  To  be  sure,  she  fre 
quently  had  company  for  tea,  the  company  usually  con 
sisting  of  Miss  Abbie  Mervin  and  a  certain  William 
Ransome ;  or  of  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Francis  Catherwood 
and  their  daughter  Constance,  with  their  son  Jack 
whenever  he  was  to  be  had,  with  or  without  Miss 
Mervin. 

Mrs.  Francis  Catherwood  was  Miss  Joyce's  sister,  so 
that  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  she  should  be  asked 
to  tea;  and  in  Colonel  Catherwood's  title  Miss  Har 
riet  felt  an  inordinate  pride,  which  she  flattered  herself 
she  did  not  show  —  although  all  of  her  friends  were 
well  aware  of  it,  and  would  have  laughed  at  her  for  it 
if  they  had  not  held  Miss  Harriet  in  such  sincere  af 
fection.  Colonel  Catherwood  himself  would  have  been 
the  first  to  laugh  at  Miss  Harriet's  reverence  for  a  title, 
and  would  have  dropped  his  if  Miss  Joyce  and  his  other 
friends  and  relatives  would  have  let  him,  although  it 
had  come  to  him  honorably  from  years  of  service  in 
the  Civil  War.  For  her  nephew,  Jack,  Miss  Harriet  had 
a  great  affection  and  admiration,  which  that  young 
man  had  done  little  to  deserve,  if  he  had  done  nothing 
to  forfeit  either  affection  or  admiration.  He  was  but 
ten  years  younger  than  Miss  Harriet  herself. 

As  for  William  Ransome — well,  he  was  just  William 
Ransome;  a  convenient  person  to  have  about  and  to 
be  able  to  depend  upon.  He  was  obliging  and  consid 
erate,  even  self-sacrificing,  —  Miss  Harriet  would  have 

9 


OLD  HARBOR 


acknowledged  it,  —  if  unimportant.  At  least,  that  ap 
peared  to  be  the  view  Miss  Joyce  took  of  him.  She 
realized  his  virtues,  but  failed  to  appreciate  them.  They 
did  not  seem  to  be  very  virtuous  virtues ;  not  positive 
enough  to  impress  her  strongly.  He  had  reached  the 
age  of  forty  —  a  convenient  age,  be  it  said  —  without 
having  accomplished  anything  in  particular.  He  was 
not  even  a  captain ;  which  was  certainly  no  fault  of  his, 
for  he  was  but  ten  years  old  when  the  war  ended.  But 
if  —  and  Miss  Harriet  was  wont  to  sigh  as  she  thought 
upon  the  matter  —  if  he  had  only  been  a  captain,  or, 
at  least,  a  lieutenant! 

William  Ransome,  well  knowing  her  views  upon  the 
subject,  smiled  quietly  to  himself.  He  did  not  enter  the 
militia;  a  captaincy  in  the  militia  would  not  have  ap 
pealed  to  Miss  Harriet.  And  there  were  certain  things 
—  ambitions,  hopes,  if  unacknowledged  —  what  you 
will  —  which  he  no  longer  confided  to  her.  Of  course, 
she  knew  it,  and  she  knew  the  reason;  and  she  was 
sorry. 

It  happened  that  she  was  thinking  about  William 
Ransome  as  she  took  the  silver  out  of  the  trunk  in  which 
it  had  reposed,  with  weekly  interruptions,  for  so  long. 
She  often  thought  of  him,  vaguely,  much  as  one  thinks 
about  a  brother  or  a  sister  or  a  cousin  who  is  seen 
almost  daily,  and  she  was  aware  only  of  a  feeling  of 
pity  for  his  failure  to  do  things.  A  man  cannot  expect 
to  be  called  anything  but  a  failure  when  he  has  reached 
the  age  of  forty  without  accomplishing  something  in 

10 


OLD  HARBOR 


particular  —  something  tangible.  What  Miss  Harriet 
really  meant  by  something  tangible  was  probably  some 
thing  that  one  could  brag  of,  in  a  quiet  way.  But  what 
ever  William  Ransome  might  have  done,  he  certainly 
never  would  have  bragged  of  it  —  and  it  is  to  be  hoped 
that  Miss  Harriet  would  not,  either.  Indeed,  one  may 
be  sure  that  she  would  not;  it  was  something  that 
could  be  bragged  about  that  she  wanted  —  something 
braggable. 

"  Abbie,"  she  said,  coming  into  the  dining-room  with 
her  arms  full  of  ancient  pieces  of  silver,  "  I  was  won 
dering —  what  do  you  suppose  William  will  think?" 

Miss  Mervin  glanced  up.  She  had  been  engaged  in 
arranging  an  old  silver  tea-set  on  the  great  mahogany 
sideboard,  and  the  arrangement  did  not  please  her, 
and  she  was  frowning. 

"What  did  you  say,  Harriet?"  she  asked,  taking  a 
moment  to  get  the  full  import  of  the  question.  "  Oh, 
what  will  William  think  ?  "  She  laughed  "  It  does  n't 
matter  what  he  will  think,  does  it  ?  I  did  not  suppose 
that  you  considered  his  opinions,  on  any  subject,  im 
portant." 

Strangely  enough,  Miss  Joyce  seemed  to  resent  this 
view  of  the  matter.  She  colored  quickly,  and  was  about 
to  say  something ;  then  she  thought  better  of  it  and  said 
something  else. 

"I  don't  consider  William's  opinions  on  most  sub 
jects  of  value  —  of  any  great  value,"  she  added,  correct 
ing  herself.  "  But  he  has  excellent  taste,  you  know.  I 

11 


OLD  HARBOR 


should  be  inclined  to  give  some  weight  to  his  opinion 
on  this  subject." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Mervin,  stepping  back  to  regard 
the  tea-set  from  a  distance,  "I  suppose  that,  if  Wil 
liam  knew  that  you  had  arranged  that  tea-set,  for 
instance,  he  would  perjure  his  soul  and  say  that  the 
arrangement  was  admirable.  The  queen  can  do  no 
wrong,  you  know.  But  if  he  knew  that  Abbie  Mervin 
had  arranged  it,  he  would  feel  free  to  say  that  it  looked 
like  fury.  It  does,  Harriet.  There  is  too  much  of 
it.  It  spoils  that  sideboard,  and  the  sideboard  is  too 
handsome  to  be  spoiled  by  such  trumpery." 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Abbie."  Miss  Harriet  smiled  in 
spite  of  herself.  "William  would  be  as  likely  to  be 
pleased  with  any  arrangement  of  yours  as  with  mine. 
That  trumpery,  as  you  call  it,  is  an  extremely  hand 
some  set,  and  very  old." 

"Oh,  I  know.  And  I  know  the  history  of  it  quite 
well,  so  you  need  not  trouble.  But,  on  the  sideboard, 
it  looks  like  trumpery.  With  its  tray,  it  covers  too  much 
of  that  top.  It  might  do  on  the  table,"  she  said  doubt 
fully.  "The  sideboard,  Harriet,  needs  a  few  handsome 
things  —  things  that  will  show  it  off  and  not  conceal 
it." 

Miss  Harriet  smiled  again,  quietly.  "You  were  ar 
ranging  it,  Abbie,  not  I." 

"So  I  was."  Abbie  Mervin  laughed.  "And  I  was 
talking  for  my  own  benefit.  If  you  will  take  that  side, 
Harriet,  —  it's  pretty  heavy  and  awkward." 

12 


OLD  HARBOR 


Together,  they  moved  the  offending  tea-set  to  its 
place  upon  the  table.  Miss  Joyce  stood  looking  at  it 
thoughtfully,  for  some  minutes. 

"  It  looks  well  there,  I  think,"  she  said,  at  last.  "  I  'm 
going  to  ask  William  to  tea  this  evening.  You  '11  come, 
won't  you,  Abbie  ?  It  will  be  a  sort  of  anniversary ; 
not  altogether  a  cheerful  one.  I'd  ask  Mary,  but  I 
know  she  is  going  out  with  the  colonel." 

"You  flatter  me,  Harriet,"  replied  Miss  Mervin. 
"  But  I  '11  come,  so  long  as  there  is  no  one  else  avail 
able.  It  would  be  simply  disgraceful  for  you  to  have 
William  in  to  tea  alone." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Harriet,  "it  would." 

And  Miss  Harriet  went  off  to  write  her  note,  which 
she  dispatched  by  the  hand  of  her  only  maidservant. 
She  did  not  ask  for  an  answer;  it  did  not  occur  to 
her  to  doubt  William's  acceptance  of  her  invitation. 
Indeed,  it  was  rather  of  the  nature  of  a  summons. 
William  had  not  failed  to  heed  invitations  of  that 
nature  in  the  past  twelve  years,  not  once.  Why  should 
Miss  Harriet  doubt  his  joyful  response  now? 


CHAPTER  II 

WILLIAM  came ;  and  if  there  was  no  evidence  of  his 
joy  in  coming,  at  least  there  was  no  reluctance  which 
was  apparent  to  Miss  Joyce.  If  he  felt  any  reluctance, 
he  succeeded  in  concealing  it  under  an  admirable  man 
ner,  quiet  and  deferential.  But  Miss  Mervin  looked 
at  him  queerly,  smiled  the  very  least  bit,  and  looked 
away.  William  wondered  at  that  smile.  He  was  a  little 
afraid  of  Miss  Mervin  —  just  a  little;  he  felt  that 
he  did  not  understand  her.  But  he  understood  Miss 
Harriet,  or  he  thought  that  he  did.  She  seemed  less 
complex. 

William  thought  that  he  understood,  too,  why  he 
was  there.  He  admired  duly,  saying  something  com 
plimentary,  in  his  quiet  way,  about  everything  that, 
as  he  judged,  was  brought  to  his  attention ;  which  he 
could  do  with  no  undue  strain  on  his  conscience. 
There  was  an  air  of  finality  in  his  utterances  which 
pleased  Miss  Joyce.  She  was  set  up. 

"There,  William,"  she  said,  smiling  happily,  "that 
will  do  nicely.  .1  only  hope  that  you  have  meant  it  all, 
and  I  believe  that  you  have.  For  I  am  going  to  use 
these  things  every  day." 

"  A  wise  decision,  Harriet,"  replied  William.  "  Things 
are  meant  to  be  used,  even  silver  things  and  china 

14 


OLD   HARBOR 


things.  I  assure  you,"  he  added,  smiling  in  his  turn, 
"that  I  have  meant  it  all,  every  word  of  it — much 
more  than  I  said.  A  man  must  approve  your  decision, 
whether  his  approval  be  asked  or  not." 

"  Very  worthy  sentiments,  William,"  observed  Miss 
Mervin ;  at  which  William,  not  knowing  how  to  take 
this  remark,  said  nothing,  but  looked  puzzled  and 
rather  helpless. 

Immediately  Miss  Harriet  foresaw  a  silence  which 
would  be  embarrassing  to  William  and  annoying  to 
herself.  Apparently  such  silences  gave  Miss  Mervin 
some  pleasure.  They  were  usually  caused  by  some 
remark  of  hers.  Miss  Harriet  did  not  approve. 

"William,"  she  said  hastily,  "do  you  know  that  it  is 
just  fifteen  years  to-night  since  Eben  ran  away?" 

She  said  it  bravely,  for  she  well  knew  that  Abbie 
would  say  it  if  she  did  not.  She  would  have  preferred 
to  put  it  differently. 

William  dropped  the  spoon  with  which  he  was  eat 
ing,  rather  daintily,  some  of  Miss  Harriet's  excellent 
gooseberry  preserve. 

"No,"  he  cried,  in  a  low  voice.  His  sincerity  could 
not  be  doubted.  "Is  it  possible!  Poor  Eben!  It  was 
immediately  after  an  —  er  —  an  interview  with  his 
father,  if  I  am  not  mistaken.  You  have  had  no  word 
from  him  since?" 

Abbie  Mervin  broke  in  before  Miss  Harriet  could 
speak.  "No,  she  has  not,  and  we  can't  blame  Eben  — 
or  I  can't.  You  should  not  call  it  an  interview,  William. 

15 


OLD  HARBOR 


His  father  gave  him  an  unmerciful  thrashing,  and  he 
submitted.  Think  of  that,  William.  He  submitted!" 

William  seemed  to  be  in  some  distress  of  mind,  be 
tween  what  he  considered  that  loyalty  to  Miss  Harriet 
demanded  and  his  natural  feelings. 

"Very  painful!"  he  murmured.  "A  very  painful 
affair.  It  seems,"  he  continued,  gathering  courage  as 
he  proceeded,  "  to  have  been  a  most  unfortunate  thing 
—  most  unfortunate  in  its  results :  unfortunate  for 
Eben,  and  equally  unfortunate  for  his  family." 

Miss  Harriet  was  grateful.  "Thank  you,  William; 
Abbie  is  too  hard  on  father.  His  intentions  were  as 
good  as  any  father  could  have  had." 

"Yes,"  said  William,  sympathetically.  "Nobody 
who  knew  your  father  could  doubt  that.  But  there  seems 
to  have  been  some  fault  in  their  application,  as  we  see 
it  now.  It  is  easy  to  judge  of  wisdom  after  the  event." 

Miss  Mervin  laughed.  "  One  cannot  doubt  that  they 
were  well  applied,  or,  at  least,  thoroughly." 

William  smiled  in  his  quiet  way,  and  even  Miss  Har 
riet  could  not  forbear. 

William  hemmed  a  little.  "I  should  like,  Harriet," 
he  said,  "to  propose  Eben's  health,  if  you  can  spare 
a  little  of  your  excellent  sherry  for  the  purpose.  One 
hardly  likes  to  drink  a  health  in  tea,  however  good  it 
may  be ;  and  water,  I  believe,  is  fatal." 

Miss  Harriet,  beaming,  was  about  to  ring;  then  she 
thought  better  of  it.  "I'll  get  it,  myself,"  she  cried. 

She  rose  and  took  from  the  sideboard  a  decanter,  — 
16 


OLD  HARBOR 


it  was  one  of  the  heirlooms,  come  out  for  daily  service 
with  her  great-grandmother's  china,  —  and  she  pro 
duced  from  one  of  the  mysterious  recesses  of  that 
ancient  piece  of  furniture  some  thin  old  glasses. 

"There,  William!"  said  Miss  Mervin.  "Now  you 
may  deliver  your  soul." 

William  stood,  and  raised  his  glass  on  high,  and,  as 
he  spoke,  he  looked  over  the  heads  of  those  other  two, 
and  the  look  in  his  eyes  was  as  if  he  saw  far  and  as  if 
the  walls  of  that  room  had  not  been.  Abbie  Mervin 
wondered  at  his  face.  It  was  transformed.  This  was 
not  the  William  that  she  had  known  all  her  life. 

"Here's  to  you,  Eben  Joyce,  wherever  you  may  be," 
he  said  softly.  "  If  you  have  life,  God  grant  that  it  is 
a  life  of  peace  and  content,  and  bring  you  back  to  us. 
If  you  have  not,  may  God  rest  your  soul." 

Miss  Harriet's  eyes  filled,  but  she  said  nothing ;  and 
Abbie  Mervin's  eyes  were  very  hard  and  bright,  but 
she  said  nothing,  either.  They  drank  their  sherry  in 
silence  and  very  solemnly. 

"There!"  cried  Miss  Mervin,  with  a  little  laugh  that 
sounded  forced.  "Now  let's  not  say  any  more  about 
him." 

William  smiled  understandingly,  and  sat  down  again ; 
and  Miss  Harriet,  furtively  wiping  her  eyes,  mean 
while,  with  a  diminutive  handkerchief,  made  a  re 
mark.  This  was  partly  to  change  the  subject,  and 
partly  because  she  felt  deeply  grateful  to  William  Ran- 
some. 

17 


OLD  HARBOR 


"William,"  she  said,  "why  don't  you  ever  read  me, 
now,  the  things  you  write?" 

"  Because,"  replied  William,  quietly,  "  you  would  not 
be  interested  in  them,  Harriet." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  I  would  n't  ?"  insisted  Miss 
Harriet.  "You  still  write  them,  don't  you?" 

William  ignored  the  first  question.  It  would  not  have 
been  an  easy  one  to  answer,  although  it  is  to  be  sup 
posed  that  he  did  know.  "Yes,"  he  said  modestly, 
"I  write  them  —  on  a  very  limited  scale." 

"Well,"  remarked  Miss  Harriet,  turning  to  Abbie, 
"they  were  very  nice  things,  I  am  sure;  about  —  I 
don't  seem  to  remember  what  they  were  about.  What 
was  it,  William  ?  " 

Miss  Mervin  laughed  at  that,  with  uncalled-for 
glee. 

"Come,  now,  William,  what  were  they  about?"  she 
asked  gayly. 

William  smiled  as  if  he  enjoyed  it.  "They  were 
about  —  er  —  a  little  of  everything." 

"Mercy!"  cried  Abbie  Mervin.  "What  a  wide 
range!" 

"Yes,"  said  William,  "rather  wide." 

"  Well,  anyway,"  said  Miss  Harriet,  "  they  were  very 
pretty  things,  and  quite  grammatical.  I  remember 
that  distinctly,  because  so  many  things  that  are  writ 
ten  now  are  not  grammatical  at  all !  " 

"Thank  you,"  said  William.  "You  are  very 
kind." 

18 


OLD   HARBOR 


Miss  Harriet  looked  at  him  suspiciously.  "Well," 
she  said,  rather  sharply,  "they  were  grammatical, 
were  n't  they?" 

"  I  hope  so,"  William  answered.  "  I  meant  that  they 
should  be." 

"Well,  William,"  asked  Miss  Harriet  again,  her  sus 
picions  allayed,  "why  don't  you  —  or  why  won't  you 
—  read  me  some  of  them  ?"  • 

William  would  have  sighed  if  he  had  dared.  "I 
don't  because  I  thought  you  would  not  be  interested, 
Harriet.  But  if  you  wish  it,  I  will,  of  course." 

"  Oh ! "  cried  Abbie  Mervin,  her  eyes  sparkling,  "  and 
may  I  be  there  to  hear?" 

To  which  question  Wrilliam  made  no  reply,  but  he 
found  himself  smiling  again  at  Miss  Mervin.  He  had 
smiled  at  her  rather  often  in  the  last  few  minutes.  He 
would  have  been  astonished,  and  perhaps  a  little  afraid, 
if  he  had  realized  that  fact. 

So  that  matter  was  settled  to  Miss  Harriet's  satis 
faction,  and  she  felt  that  she  had  done  a  good  deed. 
Indeed,  she  was  pleased  to  find  that  there  was  a  little 
glow  at  her  heart.  She  had  an  indefinable  sense  of 
gratitude  to  William,  —  she  could  not,  for  the  life  of 
her,  have  told  why,  —  and  she  wished  to  do  something 
which  would  give  him  pleasure.  She  could  not  imagine 
anything  more  likely  to  give  him  pleasure  than  the 
reading  of  his  own  creations  to  an  audience  consisting 
of  Miss  Joyce :  a  cultivated  and  a  sympathetic  audience. 
That  she  was  sympathetic,  she  had  not  a  doubt;  but 

19 


OLD  HARBOR 


why,  oh,  why,  did  William  waste  his  time  in  writing 
such  —  such  stuff ! 

All  of  this  may  have  represented  William's  point  of 
view,  too,  or  it  may  not.  At  least,  he  did  not  say  that 
it  did  not.  He  probably  would  have  forgotten  the  mat 
ter  completely,  but  for  Miss  Mervin,  who  seemed  to 
have  an  interest  in  listening  to  some  of  his  productions. 
He  was  surprised  to  find  that  he  looked  forward,  with 
some  degree  of  pleasure,  to  reading  to  an  audience  con 
sisting  of  Miss  Joyce  and  Miss  Mervin,  an  audience 
cultivated  and  sympathetic,  —  at  least  half  of  it  would 
be  sympathetic,  he  felt  reasonably  sure.  That  com 
forted  him  for  the  rest  of  the  short  evening. 

"Now,  William,"  said  Miss  Harriet,  solicitously, 
herself  going  to  the  door  with  her  guests,  "you  will 
see  that  Abbie  gets  safely  home,  will  you  ?" 

It  was  rather  a  command  than  a  question.  William 
smiled.  "Yes,  Harriet." 

Abbie  Mervin  laughed.  "How  absurd,  Harriet!" 
she  said.  "As  if  I  could  n't  go  two  steps  alone,  after 
dark!  But  I  want  to  talk  to  William,  so  he  may  go 
home  with  me." 

They  went,  and  Miss  Harriet  watched  them  as  far 
as  she  could  see,  which  was  not  far.  It  was  very  dark 
on  the  front  walk,  and  a  long  way  to  the  street.  And 
she  shut  the  door,  not  without  misgivings  as  to  her  wis 
dom  in  sending  them  off  together.  If  Abbie  wanted  to 
talk  to  William,  why  could  n't  she  have  said  what  she 
had  to  say  before  she  went  ? 

20 


OLD  HARBOR 


"Pshaw!"  she  exclaimed  suddenly.  "What  a  fool 
lam!" 

As  for  William  and  Abbie,  they  heard  Miss  Harriet 
shut  the  door  and  missed  the  faint  gleam  of  light ;  then 
heard  nothing  but  the  soft  crunch  of  the  gravel  under 
their  feet. 

"My!"  cried  Miss  Mervin,  softly.  "It  is  dark, 
under  these  trees,  isn't  it,  William?  Oh!  What's 
that?" 

For  a  form  had  crept  out  from  behind  a  tree  close 
beside  them :  a  strangely  grotesque,  misshapen  form, 
with  a  big  head  and  curious  wobbly  legs  and  long  arms 
which  waved  about.  Of  course  they  could  not  see  all 
that  clearly,  for  it  was  almost  as  dark  as  pitch,  but 
they  saw  enough  to  recognize  the  familiar  figure.  Miss 
Mervin  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  And  the  figure  gave  a 
harsh,  clattering  laugh. 

"Man  in  there,"  it  cried,  waving  its  long  arms. 
"Man  in  there."  Again  it  laughed  harshly. 

" It's  Clanky  Beg,"  said  Miss  Mervin ;  " only  Clanky 
Beg.  I  never  came  nearer  being  scared  out  of  my 
wits  in  my  life.  —  Clanky,"  she  went  on  kindly, "you 
must  n't  creep  out  at  people  from  behind  trees,  that 
way,  in  the  dark.  It  would  be  sure  to  scare  them.  You 
won't,  any  more,  will  you?" 

"No,  ma'am,"  said  Clanky  Beg.  Then  he  laughed 
again,  harshly,  and  touched  William  familiarly  on  the 
arm.  "Man  in  there!"  he  cried,  with  an  evident  relish 
of  something,  though  it  was  impossible  to  guess  what. 

21 


OLD  HARBOR 


"Man  in  there."  Once  more  he  gave  his  clattering 
laugh,  and  vanished  in  the  darkness. 

"Now,  which  way  did  he  go  ?"  asked  Miss  Mervin. 
"Could  you  tell?" 

William  laughed  shortly.  "Not  I,"  he  answered. 
"  Clanky  has  a  most  mysterious  way  of  disappearing. 
You  call  good-night  to  him,  and  see  whether  you  can 
tell  where  the  answer  comes  from.  He  probably  would 
not  answer  me  at  all." 

"Good-night,  Clanky  Beg,"  called  Miss  Mervin. 

"Good-night,  ma'am,"  came  the  answer,  instantly; 
but  where  it  came  from,  whether  from  before,  behind, 
or  from  either  side  of  them,  neither  William  nor  Abbie 
had  the  least  idea. 

"That's  a  curious  thing,"  said  William. 

"  Yes,"  assented  Abbie.  "  Clanky  seems  to  have  an 
idea  that  you  go  to  Harriet's  too  often." 

'Oh!"  said  William,  stopping  short.  "So  that  is 
what  he  meant."  He  again  took  his  place  at  Abbie's 
side.  "  Well,  now,"  he  murmured  gently  and  reflec 
tively,  "I  wonder  if  I  do." 


CHAPTER  III 

CLANKY  BEG  was  the  son  of  a  drunken  father;  a 
brute,  who  had  amused  himself,  when  in  his  cups,  by 
keeping  the  boy  under  the  table  and  kicking  out  of  his 
head  what  little  sense  God  had  put  into  it.  Clanky  was 
a  very  small  boy  during  this  period  of  his  existence,  and 
the  casual  kickings  by  his  loving  father,  merely  to  ease 
his  mind,  were  mostly  about  the  head;  which  is  not 
generally  recommended  as  a  pastime,  in  bringing  up 
boys  —  or  girls,  either,  for  that  matter. 

They  were  frequent  enough,  these  kickings,  if  casual ; 
and  it  is  not  strange  that  they  resulted  in  a  condition 
of  partial  idiocy,  and  in  a  consequent  abnormality  of 
growth,  which  will  account  sufficiently  for  Clanky 's  big 
head  and  wobbly  legs,  although  it  may  not  explain  the 
unusual  length  and  strength  of  his  arms.  Indeed,  he 
would  undoubtedly  have  died  of  the  kickings  to  which 
he  was  subjected,  if  his  father  had  not  been  killed  first, 
providentially,  in  a  street  fight.  As  his  mother  had 
died  some  months  before,  from  injuries  inflicted,  also 
in  a  casual  way,  by  his  father,  —  she  had  made  an  ill- 
advised  attempt  to  prevent  him  from  abusing  the  boy, 
—  Clanky  was  left  as  a  legacy  to  the  public. 

He  was  the  only  legacy,  as  it  happened,  and  he  natu 
rally  fell  —  when  he  was  found,  which  was  only  two 

23 


OLD  HARBOR 


days  after  the  sad  demise  of  his  father  (two  days  of 
starvation,  which  did  not  materially  improve  his  con 
dition)  —  he  naturally  fell  to  the  Overseers  of  the  Poor ; 
who,  being  overjoyed  to  get  hold  of  such  a  promising 
citizen,  relegated  him  to  the  Poor  Farm  with  all  possible 
speed  and  with  many  shrugs  and  wry  faces,  and  thus 
washed  their  hands  of  him  completely.  They  never 
visited  the  Poor  Farm. 

It  was  during  the  first  year  of  his  stay  at  the  Poor 
Farm  that  he  got  the  name  of  Clanky  Beg.  He  in 
sisted  that  that  was  his  name,  and  seemed  to  know 
no  other,  though  what  was  the  association  of  ideas 
in  his  poor  misshapen  head,  it  was  impossible  even  to 
guess.  But  nobody  took  the  trouble  to  guess  about 
Clanky  Beg ;  and  Clanky  Beg  it  was,  from  that  time 
on,  and  his  real  name,  if  it  ever  had  been  known,  was 
forgotten. 

The  years  at  the  Poor  Farm  were,  on  the  whole, 
happy  years  for  Clanky.  To  be  sure,  he  became  the 
drudge  of  the  place,  at  the  beck  and  call  of  every  old 
woman  and  every  boy, —  he  had  not  the  wit  to  avoid 
imposition,  or  even  to  recognize  it.  He  was  made  to 
fetch  and  carry  for  the  other  inmates  when  he  had  done 
his  hard  day's  work  for  the  farm ;  which  was  as  much 
as  the  superintendent  thought  he  could  get  out  of  him ; 
much  more  than  he  could  have  got  out  of  any  man  in 
his  senses,  and  Clanky  was  a  boy.  But  he  was  happy, 
though  chronically  tired.  Poor  boy,  he  knew  no  easier 
life.  And  so  he  stayed  there  until  he  was  nearly  twenty 

24 


OLD  HARBOR 


—  nobody  knew  his  age  exactly  —  and  Mrs.  Loughery 
chanced  to  see  him. 

Mrs.  Loughery  was  a  poor  woman  with  troubles  of 
her  own  and  a  kind  heart ;  which  was  not  the  least  of  her 
troubles,  for  it  would  not  let  her  pass  lightly  by  the 
troubles  of  other  people.  So,  no  sooner  had  she  seen 
Clanky  Beg  and  realized  what  his  life  must  be  at  that 
institution  of  a  free  people,  than  she  tried  to  get  him. 
In  this  she  had  not  much  difficulty.  The  Overseers  of 
that  time  were  easily  persuaded  that  she  was  a  woman 
of  sufficient  means  to  support  one  more,  although  one 
would  have  thought  that  she  had  enough  on  her  hands 
already.  But  the  Overseers  of  the  Poor  did  not  offi 
cially  know  that  she  had  a  worthless  son  to  support  who 
contributed  nothing  and  an  invalid  son  who  could  do 
little  —  he  did  what  he  could,  poor  boy!  So  Clanky 
went  with  Mrs.  Loughery  and  began  a  life  full  of  joy  to 
him ;  fuller  of  joy  than  any  he  had  ever  known.  That  is 
not  to  say  that  it  was  a  life  of  ease.  Very  little  joy  had 
Clanky  Beg  known  up  to  that  time.  He  did  the  chores 
for  Mrs.  Loughery,  which  were  light,  compared  with 
the  chores  at  the  Poor  Farm ;  did  cheerfully  anything 
else  that  she  would  let  him  do ;  and  had  many  hours  to 
himself.  And  he  wandered  wide  and  free,  tolerated, 
even  liked.  For  he  was  pleasant  and  obliging  and  good- 
natured  to  a  fault,  and  there  was  no  harm  in  him. 

Miss  Mervin's  explanation  of  what  Clanky  Beg  had 
said  did  not  seem  entirely  satisfactory  to  William 
Ransome,  and  the  more  he  thought  about  it,  the  less 

25 


OLD  HARBOR 


satisfactory  it  seemed.  He  was  more  troubled  than  he 
would  have  been  willing  to  acknowledge,  and  his  replies 
to  Abbie  Mervin's  remarks  were  so  random  and  wide 
that  she  laughed  at  him. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  William  ?"  she  said.  "  Do  you 
know  what  it  was  that  I  asked  you,  just  now?" 

He  flushed  quickly  and  smiled,  although  she  could 
not  see  either  the  flush  or  the  smile,  in  that  darkness. 
"Well,  no,"  he  answered  slowly,  "lam  afraid  I  don't. 
What  was  it?" 

"  I  asked  you,"  she  continued,  "  whether  you  had  ever 
tried  to  get  any  of  your  writings  published." 

"Oh,  did  you  ?"  he  said,  chuckling.  "And  what  did 
I  say?"  His  answer  must  have  been  very  far  from 
answering  that  question,  he  knew. 

"You  said,"  she  replied,  "'No,  he  couldn't  have 
meant  me,  I  think/  Now  I  submit,  William,  that  that 
is  not  an  answer  —  not  a  proper  answer  —  to  my  ques 
tion."  Abbie  laughed  again,  gayly.  William  laughed, 
too,  softly.  "  I  'm  afraid,"  Abbie  went  on,  "  that  Clanky 
Beg  troubles  you." 

"I  'm  afraid  he  does,"  he  acknowledged. 

"  I  won't  press  you  for  an  answer  —  a  proper  answer 
—  now,"  she  said.  "But  you  have  to  tell  me  all  about 
it,  some  time.  For  I  am  interested,  William." 

"  Thank  you,  Abbie.   I  am  glad.   Now  Harriet  — 
He  spoke  hesitatingly,  and  did  not  finish. 

"I understand  perfectly — exactly,"  she  said  hastily. 
"Harriet  —  well  —  I  am  really  interested,  William, 

26 


OLD  HARBOR 


and  Harriet  is  —  is  not,  to  put  it  plainly.  You  could 
not  reasonably  expect  it.  We  need  not  say  more.  So, 
be  prepared." 

"Thank  you,"  he  returned  gratefully.    "I  will." 

"Now,"  she  said,  "here  I  am,  quite  safe,  at  my  own 
door.  So  I  will  release  you,  William.  Good-night." 

Having  bidden  her  good-night,  he  started  briskly 
home.  He  was  thinking,  as  he  walked  under  the  shad 
ows  of  the  great  elms,  of  Miss  Harriet  and  of  Abbie 
Mervin  and  of  Clanky  Beg.  He  had  not  known  Abbie 
Mervin  well  enough,  it  seemed.  Suddenly  he  became 
aware  of  another  shadow,  stealing  from  trunk  to  trunk, 
sometimes  behind  him,  sometimes  at  his  side,  but  never 
very  near. 

"  Clanky  Beg,"  he  called  softly,  "  please  come  here. 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

Clanky  came  up,  readily  enough,  and  as  he  came, 
he  laughed  his  clattering  laugh. 

"  Clanky,"  said  William,  when  the  laugh  had  stopped 
for  a  moment,  "  did  you  say  there  was  a  man  in  Miss 
Harriet's  ?  " 

Clanky  laughed  again.  Evidently  he  thought  it  a 
good  joke. 

"Do  you  know  who  it  was?" 

Clanky  made  no  reply,  but  there  was  a  cunning  gleam 
in  his  eyes.  It  was  a  pity  that  William  could  not  see  it ; 
for,  not  seeing  it,  he  concluded  that  Clanky  did  not 
know. 

"  Will  you  show  me  where  you  saw  him  go  ?" 
27 


OLD  HARBOR 


"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Clanky,  and  started  off  at  once. 

William  had  great  difficulty  in  following  him,  in  the 
darkness,  for  Clanky  had  reached  that  stage  of  develop 
ment  where  he  had  his  greatest  joy  in  "  playing  Indian," 
and  he  devoted  all  of  his  spare  time  to  cultivating  the 
art.  He  slid  from  tree  to  tree  with  consummate  skill, 
which  completely  baffled  William,  and  Clanky's  skill 
accomplished  no  useful  purpose  whatever,  for  they  were 
some  distance  from  Miss  Joyce's.  William  tried  to 
follow  him  at  his  usual  dignified  gait,  but  found  that  he 
caught  only  an  occasional  glimpse  of  Clanky's  shadow 
flitting  from  tree  to  tree.  Then  he  began  to  run ;  but 
he  saw  no  more  of  the  flitting  shadow.  Clanky  had 
evaded  him.  He  stopped,  laughing. 

"I  shall  be  taken  for  a  burglar,"  he  said  to  himself; 
"or  I  should  be,  if  anybody  were  about." 

He  went  on,  quietly,  until  he  was  at  the  Joyce  gate. 
All  was  quiet  and  all  was  dark ;  very  dark,  except  for  a 
dim  light  in  an  upper  room,  which  was  probably  from 
Miss  Harriet's  bedroom  candle.  And  here  was  he, 
at  her  gate,  gazing  up  at  it.  If  he  were  not  taken  for 
a  burglar,  he  might  be  taken  for  a  lover;  and  at  the 
thought  he  laughed  again,  quietly.  Ten  years  before, 
he  might  have  done  such  things  from  a  lover's  motives ; 
but  now  —  his  laugh  died  and  he  sighed.  He  wished 
that  he  knew.  If  only  he  knew ! 

"Clanky!"  he  called  softly. 

Clanky  stood  before  him ;  but  where  he  had  come 
from,  it  was  impossible  to  guess.  William  did  not  try. 

28 


OLD   HARBOR 


"Keep  still,  Clanky,"  William  commanded;  and 
Clanky  choked  off  one  of  his  laughs.  It  would  have 
been  a  horrible  noise  in  the  quiet  night. 

"Now, please  go  on, "said  William,  "and  remember 
that  I  am  not  as  skillful  as  you  are  in  tracking.  Don't 
lose  me." 

Clanky  grinned  with  pleasure  and  led  him  up  the 
walk,  then  around  by  the  piazza  —  taking  care  to 
walk  on  the  grass  of  the  terrace,  for  it  would  not  be 
stealthy  enough,  for  an  Indian,  to  step  upon  the  piazza 
—  to  the  side  door.  It  was  easy  to  look  into  the  dining- 
room  windows  from  this  point,  and  William  noticed, 
with  something  of  a  shock,  that  one  of  the  shades 
was  not  pulled  completely  down.  He  tried  to  remem 
ber  whether  it  had  been  so  during  supper,  but  failed. 
Clanky  had  stopped,  and  had  made  a  motion  with  his 
long  arms  to  indicate  that  here  was  the  place  where  the 
man  should  be.  William  began  a  search,  which  would 
have  been  thorough,  but  there  was  the  sound  of  a  win 
dow  being  raised,  and  Miss  Harriet's  voice  came  down 
to  them.  Judging  from  the  voice,  Miss  Harriet  was  not 
afraid. 

"Who  is  there?" 

William  smiled,  there  in  the  darkness.  His  discovery 
meant  so  many  things.  "  It  is  only  I,  Harriet.  Clanky 
Beg  said  there  was  a  man  in  here,  and  I  thought 
that  I  had  better  come  and  investigate." 

Miss  Harriet's  voice  was  softer  as  she  answered. 
Such  devotion  touched  her.  "  Oh,  William,"  she  said, 

29 


OLD  HARBOR 


"you  are  very  good,  I  am  sure.  But  I  am  equally  sure 
that  it  is  unnecessary.  There  can't  be  any  man  there. 
I  looked  around  most  carefully  before  coming  up. 
Thank  you,  William,  and  good-night." 

With  these  words,  delivered  with  an  air  of  kindly  con 
descension, —  at  least,  so  William  thought,  —  the  win 
dow  was  closed  again.  He  stood  there  for  a  moment, 
grinning  like  any  fool. 

"Well,  William," he  murmured, at  last,  "you've  put 
your  foot  in  it  now."  He  turned.  "Come,  Clanky,  go 
home  now,  like  a  good  boy.  You  don't  want  Mrs. 
Loughery  worrying  about  you." 

"Oh,  no,  sir,"  said  Clanky,  somewhat  anxiously. 

When  William  would  have  bidden  him  good-night, 
he  could  not  find  him. 

"Slipped  away,"  he  muttered.  "Would  that  I  had 
done  the  same  before  —  well  —  William,  you  are  a 
fool." 

He  laughed  grimly  and  went  home,  making  as  much 
noise  by  the  way  as  he  pleased,  which  was  nearly  as 
much  as  he  could.  The  man  was  but  a  creature  of 
Clanky 's  disordered  brain,  after  all.  Hereafter,  he 
would  try  to  mind  his  own  business. 

And  the  man  for  whom  William  had  been  looking  — 
for  there  was  a  man  —  had  been  cowering  in  his  hiding- 
place  all  this  time,  trembling,  filled  with  fear.  It  was  a 
good  place  that  he  had  chosen  to  hide  in  —  an  excellent 
place.  One  would  think  that  he  must  have  been  very 
familiar  with  hiding-places  about  that  house  to  hit  upon 

30 


OLD  HARBOR 


this  at  once  and  in  the  dark.  The  chances  were  that 
lie  would  not  have  been  found  if  the  search  had  been 
allowed  to  continue.  But  the  man  did  not  consider  that ; 
nor  did  his  trembling  stop  when  William  and  Clanky 
had  gone  away.  For  three  hours  he  lay  there  and  trem 
bled  —  he  seemed  to  have  spasms  of  shaking  —  until 
he  thought  that  surely  the  rattling  of  his  teeth  must 
wake  the  woman  who  slept  above  him  —  the  rattling  of 
his  teeth  and  the  knocking  together  of  his  knees. 

If  there  had  been  any  one  to  see  him,  that  one  would 
have  concluded  that  it  must  be  something  more  than 
fear  that  made  him  tremble  so ;  that,  perhaps,  the  man 
was  more  in  need  of  a  doctor  than  of  the  police  —  and 
the  doctor  was  more  accessible,  in  Old  Harbor,  than 
the  police.  When  the  three  hours  were  up  —  he  thought 
it  was  five  hours  —  when  the  three  hours  were  up,  and 
he  tried  to  get  out  of  his  hiding-place,  that  opinion 
would,  perhaps,  have  been  strengthened.  He  seemed 
pitiably  weak. 

He  was  out,  at  last,  with  many  groans.  He  tried  not 
to  groan  —  not  to  make  a  noise  of  any  kind ;  and  when 
a  groan  was  forced  from  him,  in  spite  of  all  he  could  do 
—  when  he  felt  it  coming,  he  tried  to  stifle  it.  In  this 
he  succeeded  only  indifferently  well ;  and  he  stood  upon 
the  ground  and  looked  about  him  and  listened  intently, 
fearing,  he  did  not  know  what. 

"  Good  thing  she  has  n't  a  dog,"  he  muttered;  and, 
stealthily,  he  drew  near  to  a  window  of  the  dining- 
room. 

31 


OLD  HARBOR 


It  was  hidden  from  the  street,  that  window,  around 
the  corner  of  the  house.  For  that  matter,  he  might  as 
well  have  chosen  a  front  window.  They  were  all  in 
visible  from  the  street,  in  that  darkness,  even  if  there 
had  been  any  one  abroad  to  see ;  and  the  house  was  set 
well  back,  and  there  were  many  trees,  which  would 
have  hidden  him  well  enough.  He  drew  his  knife  from 
his  pocket,  a  stout  knife  with  a  thick  blade,  and,  choos 
ing  his  place  just  where  the  catch  showed  dimly,  he 
jabbed  it  into  the  wood. 

"Now,"  he  muttered,  "if  they  haven't  fixed  this 
catch,  it  will  — ah!" 

For,  with  a  quick  pry  on  the  knife,  the  window  moved 
slightly  sidewise  and  was  free.  It  was  loose  in  its  casing. 
He  raised  it  slowly,  an  inch  —  a  half  inch  at  a  time. 
It  responded,  not  without  objection,  but  it  did  not  make 
so  very  much  noise,  not  enough  to  wake  a  maiden  lady 
with  a  clear  conscience  and  in  her  first  sound  sleep. 
Now  it  was  high  enough  to  admit  a  man,  if  he  were 
careful.  He  drew  out  the  knife  blade  and  slipped  the 
window  back,  and  the  catch  caught  with  a  click. 

He  let  up  the  shade  carefully.  "Now  for  it."  He 
sighed.  "I  wish  I  had  more  strength." 

He  struggled  up  into  the  opening,  pulled  himself 
through,  slowly  and  with  great  effort,  —  it  brought  per 
spiration  out  in  great  beads  upon  his  forehead,  —  and 
fell  in  a  heap  upon  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Miss  HARRIET  had  been  smiling  to  herself  as  she 
blew  out  her  candle  and  got  into  bed.  It  was  so  good 
of  William  to  take  all  that  trouble  for  her.  Of  course 
it  was  useless,  but  William  was  forever  doing  useless 
things,  and  it  was  like  him  to  do  this.  His  intentions 
had  been  good ;  of  that  she  felt  sure.  Well,  William  was 
—  yes,  he  was  a  dear.  And  with  an  unaccustomed 
warmth  for  him  in  the  region  of  her  heart,  she  com 
posed  herself  to  sleep. 

It  was  some  hours  later,  although  it  seemed  to  her 
the  next  minute, —  which  may  be  taken  as  proof  of  the 
clear  conscience  already  alluded  to,  and  of  some  other 
things,  —  that  she  suddenly  started  wide  awake.  She 
had  no  idea  what  it  was  that  had  wakened  her.  She  half 
rose  upon  her  elbow  and  listened.  There  was  no  sound 
except  the  ticking  of  the  tall  clock  in  the  hall,  and  that 
was  a  friendly  sound  which  she  was  well  used  to  hear 
ing.  With  a  low  exclamation  of  impatience  she  put  her 
head  back  upon  the  pillow  and  once  more  composed 
herself  to  sleep.  To  her  surprise,  sleep  would  not  come. 
After  a  half  hour  of  vain  effort,  she  began  to  get  angry. 
She  rose  upon  her  elbow  again,  turned  her  pillow  and 
pounded  it,  then  sank  back  upon  it.  She  was  wider 
awake  than  ever.  She  turned  over  upon  her  other  side, 

33 


OLD  HARBOR 


and  in  the  course  of  fifteen  minutes  she  turned  back 
again ;  and  after  ten  minutes  more  of  wakefulness,  she 
sat  up. 

"It 's  no  use,"  she  said.  "I'll  just  look  around  once 
more.  Then  I  shall  go  to  sleep  quick  enough." 

She  slipped  her  bare  feet  into  her  bedroom  slippers 
and  put  her  wrapper  on.  She  always  kept  that  on  a 
chair,  with  the  candle,  by  the  side  of  the  bed.  Then 
she  felt  for  a  match  and,  having  found  it,  she  lighted 
the  candle.  They  were  sulphur  matches,  which  made 
no  sound ;  and  there  had  been  nobody  to  hear  it,  of 
course,  if  it  had  exploded  like  a  cannon.  And  with 
the  candle  in  her  hand,  her  slippered  feet  making  no 
sound,  she  went  downstairs. 

There  was  a  light  shining  under  the  crack  of  the 
dining-room  door.  It  seemed  to  be  quite  a  bright  light. 
"My  silver!"  thought  Miss  Harriet;  and  she  hurried. 
She  grasped  the  knob  and  turned  it  noiselessly;  then, 
slowly,  she  opened  the  door. 

Her  first  impression  was  that  the  room  was  afire. 
Then,  as  she  stood  there  looking  in,  and  as  her  eyes 
got  used  to  the  light,  she  saw  that  the  illumination  was 
caused  by  six  candles,  —  there  were  no  more  than  that 
number  of  candlesticks  in  that  room,  —  and  four  of 
them  were  upon  the  sideboard  and  two  of  them  upon 
the  table;  and  all  of  her  brightly  polished  silver  was 
spread  out  upon  the  sideboard  or  upon  the  end  of  the 
table  nearest  it.  It  shone  bravely.  How  it  shone !  She 
realized  it  with  a  little  thrill  of  pride,  even  then.  The 

34 


OLD  HARBOR 


two  candlesticks  that  were  upon  the  table  stood  one 
on  either  side  of  the  place  William  had  occupied  —  the 
head  —  or  the  foot,  as  you  prefer.  In  that  place  was 
—  not  William  —  Miss  Harriet  would  have  been  glad 
enough  of  his  presence  at  that  moment  and  in  that  place. 
It  was  a  man,  a  strange  man,  with  clothes  that  were 
threadbare  and  worn,  and  with  a  week's  beard  upon  his 
face.  There  seemed  to  be  a  certain  refinement  in  his 
features,  so  far  as  Miss  Harriet  could  see  them.  The 
man  had  his  face  turned  away  from  her.  But  he  was 
strangely  familiar.  Miss  Harriet  found  herself  puzzling 
over  that,  wondering  where  she  could,  by  any  possibil 
ity,  have  seen  him  before.  The  man  was  standing, 
apparently  gazing  at  the  silver  so  temptingly  arrayed 
before  him.  Miss  Harriet  suddenly  realized  that,  and 
she  realized  that  it  was  very  tempting.  No  doubt 
he  would  be  putting  it  into  his  bag  in  a  minute ;  they 
always  carried  bags,  these  men,  great  gunny-sacks  for 
just  such  occasions.  A  vision  came  to  her  of  a  huge 
melting-pot  and  all  her  beloved  silver  going  into  it, 
piece  by  piece.  She  would  have  cried  out,  but  the  man 
himself,  strangely  enough,  began  speaking  before  she 
could  make  a  sound. 

He  raised  his  hand  on  high,  and  in  his  fingers  was 
one  of  those  thin  old  glasses. 

"  Here 's  to  you,  Eben  Joyce,  wherever  you  may  be," 
he  said  softly.  "  If  you  have  life,  God  grant  that  it  is 
a  life  of  peace  and  content,  and  bring  you  back  to  us. 
If  you  have  not,  may  God  rest  your  soul."  He  drank 

35 


OLD  HARBOR 


his  sherry  at  a  gulp.  "A  life  of  peace  and  content!" 
He  laughed  low  and  harshly.  "Ha!  That's  good.  A 
life  of  peace  and  content !  I  wish  to  God  I  might  have." 

Miss  Harriet  had  got  over  her  wonder.  She  had 
got  through  puzzling  about  him.  She  knew.  "  Eben," 
she  said. 

He  turned,  at  the  sound,  as  if  he  had  been  shot.  He 
seemed  stricken  with  fear.  He  still  kept  his  hold  on 
the  little  glass,  and  it  waved  about  as  he  spoke. 

"Harriet!"  he  whispered  hoarsely.  "Harriet!" 
His  voice  failed  him,  apparently.  He  could  not  seem 
to  raise  it  above  that  hoarse  whisper.  "Harriet,"  he 
repeated  pleadingly,  "I  didn't  mean  to  steal.  I 
was  n't  going  to  steal  your  things.  I  was  going  to  put 
everything  back,  just  as  I  found  it.  Truly,  I  was.  I 
only  —  only  wanted  —  to  see  them  —  once  more  — 
the  old  place  —  things  —  once  —  " 

His  voice  died  out  and  he  swayed  and  fell  where  he 
was,  a  crumpled  heap.  The  little  glass  splintered  on 
the  edge  of  the  table  as  he  fell. 

Harriet  Joyce  was  not  one  of  those  women  who  are 
accustomed  to  scream  and  clasp  their  hands  and  gaze 
with  wide-eyed  horror,  when  anything  happens  — 
when  there  is  anything  to  be  done.  Doing  things  was 
her  strong  point.  She  did  them  now;  did  what  was 
necessary,  what  was  best,  until  she  had  Eben  lying 
there  on  the  floor  of  the  dining-room  with  his  eyes 
open  and  with  sense  in  them. 

"  Now,  Eben,"  she  said,  "  you  lie  here  for  a  few  min- 
36 


OLD  HARBOR 


utes  while  I  call  my  maid.  I'm  going  to  get  you 
upstairs  into  your  own  room,  and  to  bed.  I  can't  lift 
you,  alone." 

"No,  Harriet,  no!   Let  me  go.    Please  let  me  go." 

He  struggled  to  raise  himself,  but  Miss  Harriet  held 
him  down  —  with  one  hand ;  did  it  easily. 

"Fiddlesticks!"  she  said,  and  smiled.  "You're  ill, 
Eben.  Why,  I  can  hold  you  there  with  one  hand.  You  're 
not  in  condition  to  be  trusted  to  go  anywhere.  You  'd 
faint  again  before  you  reached  the  gate.  Then  we  'd 
have  the  trouble  of  bringing  you  all  the  way  in  again. 
No."  Eben  found  her  smile  a  comfort.  "  You  're  going 
to  your  own  room,  to  your  own  bed.  I  've  kept  your 
room  in  order,  and  I  have  only  to  make  the  bed.  That 
won't  take  me  a  minute." 

Eben's  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  he  turned  his  head 
away.  He  was  very  weak,  poor  man ! 

"You're  very  good,  Harriet,"  he  whispered;  "very 
good  to  me.  But,  please,  —  I  don't  want  any  one  else 
to  —  I  can  manage  to  get  upstairs  with  a  little  help 
—  a  very  little  help." 

Harriet  spoke  quickly.  "Well,  Eben,  —  well,  if  you 
wish.  We  will  try  it.  Only  go  slowly,  and  rest  when 
ever  you  feel  tired.  Or  wait!  I  will  go  up  and  have 
the  room  ready  in  a  jiffy  and  leave  a  light.  Then  I  will 
come  back  for  you.  Will  you  promise  to  wait  here?" 

Eben  smiled  faintly.  "Yes,  I  promise.  Never  fear." 

Harriet  rose  and  started  towards  the  door.  Then  she 
came  back  and  shut  the  window.  There  was  a  flicker 

37 


OLD  HARBOR 


of  amusement  in  Eben's  eyes,  but  he  said  nothing, 
only  watched  her.  She  found  him  in  the  same  place 
—  in  the  same  position  —  when  she  came  back.  Then, 
together,  they  started  up  the  stairs.  Eben  was  stronger 
than  she  had  thought.  He  had  to  rest  only  twice  on  the 
way ;  then,  withher  help,hegot  to  his  room  and  to  bed  — 
the  bed  that  he  had  not  been  in  for  fifteen  years.  How 
well  he  remembered  his  feeling,  that  night,  fifteen  years 
ago!  He  had  felt  very  bitter,  then;  he  remembered 
thinking  that  he  should  never  lie  in  that  bed  again.  He 
had  been  glad  to  believe  that  he  should  not.  But  now  — 

He  shut  his  eyes,  and  the  tears  slowly  trickled  from 
under  the  lids  and  down  his  cheeks.  Harriet  saw  them. 

"What  is  it,  Eben?"  she  asked  gently.  "Are  you 
feeling  badly?  Have  you  any  pain?" 

Eben  opened  his  eyes.  "  No,  Harriet,"  he  whispered, 
"no  pain.  A  little  light-headed,  perhaps."  He  smiled 
at  her,  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth  quivered  as  he 
smiled.  " Harriet,  I  have  dreamed  of  this.  It  is  heav 
enly.  But  I  did  n't  expect  —  I  did  n't  hope  for  it." 

Harriet's  own  eyes  felt  hot.  "  I  don't  know  why  not, 
I'm  sure.  It's  been  yours  for  the  asking  for  a  long 
time,  Eben." 

She  turned  away  quickly,  and  began  to  put  the  little 
things  in  the  room  to  rights.  Not  that  they  needed  to  be 
set  to  rights  —  they  were  right  enough,  already ;  but  she 
felt  safer  so.  Miss  Harriet  had  all  a  man's  dislike  to 
being  seen  crying,  and  there  was  a  great  lump  in  her 
throat.  She  could  feel  Eben's  eyes  upon  her,  following 

38 


OLD  HARBOR 


her  as  she  went  about  the  room,  moving  the  things  on 
the  washstand  a  fraction  of  an  inch,  then  going  to  the 
dressing-table  and  performing  the  same  useless  task 
there.  There  was  an  old  pincushion  that  she,  herself, 
had  made,  twenty  years  before.  It  was  fat  and  hard. 
She  had  thought  it  lovely  when  she  made  it.  She  lifted 
it  and  held  it  for  Eben  to  see.  It  had  suddenly  come 
over  her  that  she  was  doing  useless  things,  and  she 
thought,  with  a  pang,  of  William  Ransome.  Just  what 
sort  of  a  pang  it  was  that  she  felt,  one  can  only  guess. 
But  the  pincushion  did  not  matter,  and  she  knew  it. 
Neither  she  nor  Eben  said  anything.  Eben  smiled 
again  at  her,  and  she  put  the  pincushion  down  again, 
before  the  old  Dutch  mirror,  where  it  had  been  these 
twenty  years.  At  last  she  could  trust  herself  to  speak. 

"Now,  Eben,"  she  said,  without  a  tremor,  "I  must 
go  down  to  the  dining-room  and  put  out  the  candles. 
You  go  right  to  sleep.  If  you  need  me,  call.  My  door 
will  be  open,  and  I  wake  easily.  Good-night." 

"Good-night,"  returned  Eben,  softly,  "and  bless 
you,  Harriet." 

She  blew  out  his  candle  quickly,  for  she  felt  the  lump 
in  her  throat  again.  Then  she  went  down  to  the  din 
ing-room  and  put  out  the  candles  there.  The  silver 
she  left  till  the  morning. 

Miss  Harriet  did  not  go  to  sleep  immediately.  Once 
she  heard  Eben  talking  in  his  sleep  —  an  uneasy  sleep, 
apparently  —  and  she  went  in  to  him.  She  could  not 
make  out  what  he  was  trying  to  say,  but  he  seemed  to 

39 


OLD  HARBOR 


be  in  fear  of  something,  and  his  hands  were  working 
uneasily  together  and  he  moved  his  head  from  side  to 
side.  Harriet  laid  her  cool  hand  upon  his  forehead  and 
found  it  somewhat  hot.  He  had  a  little  fever,  then. 
At  her  touch  his  head  stopped  its  uneasy  rolling  and 
he  half  woke,  and  reached  up  and  grasped  her  hand 
with  both  of  his. 

"It's  only  I,  Eben,"  she  said;  "it's  Harriet.  You 
were  talking  in  your  sleep,  and  I  came  in  to  see  if  you 
were  all  right." 

He  was  wide  awake  now.  "Talking  in  my  sleep?" 
he  cried  apprehensively.  "What  did  I  say,  Harriet? 
What  did  I  say?" 

"  I  could  not  make  out,"  she  replied  gently.  "  You 
seemed  to  be  afraid  of  something.  I  suppose  it  was 
only  a  bad  dream." 

He  laughed  shortly.  Harriet  could  scarcely  hear  it. 
"  A  bad  dream ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  have  a  great  many 
of  them.  I  am  afraid,  Harriet,  —  afraid  of  everything." 

"Well,  go  to  sleep  now,"  she  said  soothingly,  as 
if  he  were  a  sick  child.  "There  is  nothing  to  be  afraid 
of  now.  You  are  in  your  own  room,  in  your  own  bed. 
Go  to  sleep,  Eben." 

He  sighed  contentedly  and  turned  over,  and  she  left 
him.  But  in  the  morning  his  eyes  were  dull  and  listless 
and  he  scarcely  spoke.  Harriet  stood  looking  down  at 
her  brother  and  thinking. 

"I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  him,"  she 
murmured  finally.  "It  might  be  anything,  anything 

40 


OLD  HARBOR 


at   all,    or   nothing   but    excitement.    He  needs   the 
doctor." 

So  she  sent  for  the  doctor,  summoning  the  surprised 
maid  from  the  preparation  of  her  breakfast  for  the 
purpose.  Having  sent,  she  went  back  to  Eben's  room 
and  sat  down  in  a  low  rocker  that  stood  by  one  of  the 
windows,  a  window  through  which  the  sunshine  poured 
in  a  great  flood.  And  there  she  sat  and  rocked  noise 
lessly  except  for  the  slight  creaking  of  the  old  chair, 
and  she  thought.  The  measured,  rhythmic  creaking  of 
the  chair,  with  the  flooding  sunshine,  seemed  to  soothe 
Eben,  and,  gradually,  he  fell  asleep  again. 


CHAPTER  V 

HARRIET  JOYCE  did  not  seem  to  belong  in  a  rocking- 
chair;  there  was  something  incongruous  about  the 
combination,  especially  if  the  chair  was  being  rocked 
regularly  and  methodically,  as  it  was  now.  She  would 
have  said  so  herself,  at  once,  and  perhaps  with  unne 
cessary  vehemence.  Indeed,  she  believed,  in  her  own 
private  heart,  —  although  she  might  not  have  been  so 
ready  to  say  that,  —  that  the  rocking-chair  was  a  device 
suited  only  to  invalids,  nurses  with  babies  to  care  for, 
and  persons  of  an  inferior  intellect;  such  a  person  as 
William  Ransome,  for  example.  She  could  think  of  him 
in  a  rocker,  rocking  quietly,  although  she  had  never 
known  him  to  be  guilty  of  that  offense  —  or  she  could 
have  thought  of  him  so,  within  a  very  few  days.  Now, 
the  fact  that  she  found  it  harder  to  think  of  William 
rocking,  with  his  feet  banging  on  the  floor  with  every 
forward  swing,  was  evidence  that  her  opinion  of  Wil 
liam  was  undergoing  some  subtle  change,  of  which  she 
may  not  have  been  aware. 

None  the  less,  she  sat  there  and  rocked  gently,  and 
found  the  motion  and  the  rhythmic  creaking  very 
soothing,  as  Eben  had.  She  may  have  needed  to  be 
soothed,  for  she  had  had  an  exciting  night,  although 
she  would  not  have  acknowledged  that  it  had  excited 

42 


OLD  HARBOR 


her.  As  she  sat  rocking  and  looking  out  of  the  window, 
watching  for  the  doctor,  her  thoughts  —  her  musings, 
rather,  for  she  was  not  thinking  —  passed  uncon 
sciously  from  Eben  to  William  and  back  again. 

She  remembered  Eben  best  as  a  half -grown  boy.  She 
had  always  rather  looked  up  to  him,  she  could  not 
quite  tell  why.  Handsome,  well-bred,  with  distin 
guished  manners,  even  as  a  boy,  —  she  said  it  to  herself 
with  some  pride  in  him,  —  and  weak !  What  could  you 
expect  ?  And  he  had  gone  to  college  and  had  done  only 
fairly  well,  when  his  father  had  expected  great  things  of 
him.  To  a  man  like  her  father,  who  made  no  allowances 
for  neglect  of  duty,  it  must  have  been  a  great  disap 
pointment.  Then,  in  the  middle  of  his  junior  year,  he 
had  come  home  —  to  stay,  as  he  said.  He  did  not  stay 
long,  for  his  father,  learning  the  cause,  —  Harriet  had 
never  known  the  cause,  —  had  considered  it  necessary 
to  give  him  a  sound  thrashing.  Harriet  recalled,  even 
now,  her  father's  look  of  grief  and  sorrow.  No  one 
could  accuse  him  of  acting  in  anger.  She  recalled,  too, 
easily  enough,  Eben's  white,  set  face,  his  eyes  like  two 
burning  coals,  as  he  followed  his  father  out.  He  had 
said  no  word  to  any  one,  did  not  open  his  lips  to  speak, 
and  in  the  morning  they  found  that  he  had  gone.  Now, 
here  he  was.  Harriet  looked  long  at  the  quiet  form  on 
the  bed,  and  the  creaking  of  the  rocker  stopped;  the 
quick  tears  came  to  her  eyes,  and,  with  a  shivering  sigh, 
she  turned  to  the  window.  She  saw  the  doctor's  horse 
just  stopping  at  the  gate. 

43 


OLD  HARBOR 


It  was  an  old  white  horse,  that  seemed  to  be  clad  in 
furs  and  always  made  Miss  Harriet  think  of  a  polar  bear. 
He  was  accustomed  to  stand  before  a  house  —  dozing, 
perhaps,  if  it  was  warm,  or  looking  about  him  with  an 
air  of  the  most  lively  interest  —  he  would  stand  there 
fora  time,  which  was  as  long  as  he  was  quite  comfortable, 
and  which  varied  in  length  with  the  weather.  Then  he 
would  proceed  to  investigate  anything  which  aroused 
his  curiosity,  and  which  seemed  to  him  to  be  worth  an 
investigation.  If  he  was  cold  with  his  standing,  he 
would  walk  up  and  down  the  street,  turning  carefully 
at  the  ends  of  his  beat,  and  stopping  occasionally  at  the 
gate  and  gazing  in  inquiringly  to  see  if  there  were  any 
sign  of  the  doctor. 

Doctor  Olcott  himself  was  a  man  past  middle  age, 
stout  and  afflicted  with  asthma,  but  active  in  spite  of  it. 
Miss  Harriet  watched  him  now  getting  slowly  out  of  his 
low  buggy  and  laboring  briskly  up  the  long  walk.  Then 
she  saw  him  wheezing  up  the  steps.  She  rose  quickly 
and  went  out  of  the  room.  The  front  door  opened  and 
boomed  shut  again,  and  the  doctor  sat  down  on  the 
settle  in  the  hall  to  get  his  breath.  Harriet  started  down 
the  stairs,  and  he  heard  her  coming. 

"Hang  it  all,  Hattie,"  he  called,  "what's  the  matter 
now  ?  Why,"  —  as  she  came  within  his  view  —  "  why, 
confound  it,  there's  nothing  ailing  you.  You  ought  to 
be  ashamed  to  send  for  me  and  make  me  walk  this  mile 
uphill  from  your  gate.  There  'd  be  a  great  deal  more 
sense  in  your  coming  to  see  an  old  man  whose  heart  is 

44 


OLD   HARBOR 


skittish  and  who  has  n't  any  breath  left.    Come,  why 
did  n't  you?" 

Miss  Harriet  smiled  at  him  affectionately.  "You 
didn't  send  for  me,  doctor,"  she  replied.  "Send  for 
me,  and  see  how  quickly  I'll  come." 

The  doctor  was  standing  now,  and  he  patted  her 
shoulder. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said.  "  I  believe  you  would.  I  believe 
you  would.  Well,  what  is  it,  Hattie?  What  did  you 
want  ?  For  I  know  you  would  n't  send  for  me  for 
nothing." 

Miss  Harriet  sobered  at  once.  "  Doctor  Olcott,"  she 
said,  looking  earnestly  at  him,  "  Eben  has  come  home." 

"What!"  he  cried.  " Eben  come  home ?  Bless  my 
soul !  Is  it  good  news  —  good  or  bad,  Hattie?" 

"  Good  news,  of  course,  doctor,"  Harriet  answered, 
somewhat  indignantly.  "  How  could  it  be  anything 
else?" 

A  smile  of  amusement  flashed  into  his  eyes.  They 
were  merry  eyes,  and  the  wrinkles  about  them  were 
pleasant  to  see. 

"  Well,  —  it  is  conceivable  —  conceivable.  But  I 
beg  your  pardon.  Of  course  it  would  be  good  news 
to  you.  Somebody  to  take  care  of.  When  did  he  come, 
and  where  did  he  come  from?" 

"  He  came  last  night,"  said  Miss  Harriet,  guiltily  con 
scious  that  she  was  telling  less  than  the  whole  truth. 
"  I  don't  know  where  he  came  from.  He  has  not  been 
well  enough  to  talk  about  it." 

45 


OLD  HARBOR 


The  doctor's  manner  changed  at  once.  "  What 's  the 
matter  with  him?"  he  asked  brusquely.  "But  of 
course  you  don't  know.  He  has  some  fever,  I  suppose. 
I'd  better  see  him.  Where  is  he,  in  his  old  room?" 
He  moved  toward  the  stairs.  "No,  Hattie,  don't  you 
come,  yet.  If  I  need  anything,  I'll  call  you." 

So  Miss  Harriet  waited,  with  what  patience  she  could 
muster,  there  in  the  hall.  The  doctor  was  a  long  time 
with  Eben,  and  she  opened  the  door  and  leaned  against 
the  jamb,  looking  out.  The  air  was  cool,  for  it  was 
October ;  but  the  sunshine  was  warm  in  the  doorway, 
and  she  basked  in  it,  her  eyes  half  closed.  The  trees 
had  not  yet  lost  their  leaves,  which  were  well  turned. 
The  elm  leaves  were  not  pretty,  —  they  never  are,  being 
but  a  dingy  yellow,  —  but  here  and  there  along  the 
street,  a  maple  showed  gorgeous  colors.  The  Polar 
Bear  had  gone  over  to  investigate,  according  to  his 
habit,  a  particularly  brilliant  clump  of  scarlet;  but, 
seeing  what  it  was,  and  that  it  was  well  beyond  his 
reach,  and  probably  not  good  to  eat,  anyway,  he  was 
turning  around  with  his  customary  care,  looking  up  at 
the  houses,  meanwhile,  inquiringly. 

Harriet  watched  him  as  he  retraced  his  steps,  and  as 
she  watched,  she  saw  Abbie  Mervin  just  beyond,  wav 
ing  frantically.  At  the  same  moment  she  heard  Eben's 
door  shut  and  the  heavy  tread  of  the  doctor  coming 
down  the  stairs.  She  waved  to  Abbie,  but  her  waving 
was  far  from  frantic.  She  hoped  that  Abbie  would  not 
come  over.  Somehow,  she  did  not  want  to  see  her  just 

46 


OLD  HARBOR 


then.  She  turned  to  meet  the  doctor,  and  saw  that 
the  tears  were  standing  in  his  eyes.  He  was  evidently 
under  considerable  excitement,  and  when  he  was  near 
enough,  he  exploded. 

"  Damn  it  all,  Hattie !"  he  cried.  He  spoke  low,  lest 
Eben  should  hear.  "  Damn  it  all !  I  beg  your  pardon 
—  but  you  '11  want  to  swear  when  you  hear.  The  only 
matter  with  Eben  is  that  he  has  been  starved.  He's 
been  underfed  for  the  last  six  months  or  more,  and  the 
least  little  thing  wears  him  out.  He'd  have  had  too 
little  clothing,  too,  but  that  it  has  been  warm  weather. 
And  now  anything  may  get  hold  of  him  if  he  is  not  taken 
care  of  —  any  sickness.  Resisting  power  all  gone  — 
his  fighting  power  —  in  mind  as  well  as  body.  Feed  him 
up,  Hattie."  She  started  at  once.  "  No,  no,  I  don't 
mean  now.  Nurse  him  up,  and  then  feed  him.  I  don't 
know  his  story;  it  is  n't  necessary  that  I  should.  But 
that's  all  he  needs.  There  is  no  reason  why  it  should 
be  difficult.  You  know  well  enough  what  to  give  him 
now."  He  glanced  out  toward  the  gate.  "Here's  Abbie 
coming  in.  You  won't  want  me  now.  I'll  drop  in  this 
afternoon.  Good-by,  Hattie.  You're  a  good  girl." 

The  doctor  was  gone,  lurching  down  the  steps  and 
down  the  walk  to  the  gate.  Abbie  Mervin  would  have 
stopped;  but  the  doctor  did  not  stop,  only  calling  a 
cheery  good -morn  ing.  Then  he  whistled  for  his  horse, 
got  into  the  buggy,  and  drove  away.  Harriet  waited  at 
the  door  while  Abbie  came  up,  somewhat  anxious. 

"Well,  Harriet,"  she  said,  "I  saw  the  doctor's  horse 
47 


OLD  HARBOR 


evidently  anchored  here  —  with  a  long  tether  —  and  it 
worried  me.  You're  not  ill,  are  you  ?  Is  it  Bridget?" 

"No,"  answered  Harriet.  There  was  a  little  pause. 
"Abbie,  Eben  is  upstairs." 

Miss  Mervin  sank  down  upon  the  settle,  overcome. 
Words  failed  her.  "  Eben !"  she  gasped  at  last.  "Eben? 
Are  you  sure,  Harriet?"  She  laughed  unnaturally. 
" But  how  absurd !  Of  course  you  are.  Eben!" 

Abbie  Mervin's  feelings  were  in  a  strangely  chaotic 
state  at  that  moment.  For  years,  she  had  looked  for 
ward  to  such  a  moment  —  as  a  remote  possibility. 
She  had  cherished  an  ideal  —  had  hugged  it  close ; 
but  now  —  she  felt  a  curious  reluctance  to  act  as  she 
had  supposed  she  would  act  in  these  circumstances. 
She  was  ashamed  that  she  was  glad  of  Harriet's  next 
words. 

"  You  will  excuse  me,  Abbie,  I  know.  I  have  to  see 
about  Eben's  breakfast." 

"  Of  course.  Is  he  —  is  he  ill,  Harriet  ?  " 

"Not  seriously,  I  think.   But  he  is  not  well." 

Abbie  laughed  again.  "You  —  I  am  upset,  Harriet. 
I  will  go  as  soon  as  I  have  had  time  to  collect  my 
thoughts.  Of  course  he  can't  see  any  one  now,  but  — 
perhaps  —  as  soon  as  he  is  well  enough  —  you  will  let 
me  know?" 

Harriet  nodded  and  was  gone.  Abbie  still  sat  there 
on  the  hall  settle.  She  had  had  it  in  mind  —  yes,  she 
had  meant  —  to  renew  the  old  intimate  relations  with 
Eben,  if  he  came  back  —  when  he  came  back;  for, 

48 


OLD  HARBOR 


with  the  years,  the  feeling  that  he  might  come  had  grown 
into  a  certainty  that  he  would  come.  She  had  even, 
in  her  .own  secret  soul,  meant  to  marry  him,  as  she  had 
once  been  ready  to  promise  to  do,  and  as  he  had  seemed 
to  be  on  the  point  of  asking  her  to  do.  And  if  he  would 
not  ask  her  now,  she  had  thought  it  would  be  right 
enough  for  her  —  but  she  never  followed  that  thought  to 
its  inevitable  conclusion.  It  frightened  her.  It  seemed 
unmaidenly.  None  the  less,  in  spite  of  her  reluctance 
to  confess  to  herself,  she  knew  just  what  she  meant  to  do. 
Eben  might  well  hesitate  to  ask  that  of  any  woman, 
in  the  face  of  the  failure  he  had  made  of  his  life.  But  he 
was  not  old  yet  —  he  was  but  thirty-five.  What  was 
thirty-five  ?  Only  half  his  life ;  there  would  be  plenty 
of  time  —  plenty  of  time,  if  he  began  at  once. 

The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes  and  she  had  a  heightened 
color,  which  showed  under  her  clear  skin  like  a  tint 
upon  porcelain.  She  would  not  see  Harriet  again  — 
now.  She  could  not  bear  it.  With  a  glance  toward  the 
dining-room,  she  rose  hurriedly  and  went  out. 

Slowly  she  walked  down  the  path,  beneath  the  trees, 
and  out  at  the  gate.  She  held  her  head  erect  and  her 
eyes  were  wide  open,  but  they  told  her  brain  nothing. 
Her  physical  eyes  saw  well  enough  to  guide  her  feet  by 
the  old  familiar  places,  but  little  of  their  message  reached 
her  consciousness.  She  was  trying  to  think  —  and  not 
succeeding  very  well.  She  felt  the  need  of  adjusting  her 
self  to  the  new  circumstances ;  though  why  there  should 
be  need  of  adjusting  herself  to  these  circumstances  she 

49 


OLD  HARBOR 


could  not  have  told.  She  had  settled  all  that,  time  and 
time  again;  or  she  thought  she  had.  But  she  found 
herself  much  disturbed  —  upset.  She  did  not  like  to  be 
upset.  It  did  not  happen  to  her  often. 

A  man  was  approaching,  and  she  turned  out,  al 
though  she  was  not  aware  of  him.  He  stopped,  and 
smiled  to  see  the  look  on  her  face. 

"What's  the  matter,  Abbie?"  he  asked.  "Walking 
in  your  sleep?" 

Quite  a  different  look  came  into  her  eyes,  and  again 
the  quick  color  flooded  her  cheeks.  Again  there  was 
that  rose  tint  upon  porcelain. 

"Oh,  William!"  she  cried.  "I  'm  afraid  I  was 
walking  in  my  sleep  —  and  dreaming.  I  didn't  see 
you  at  all." 

"Evidently,"  said  William. 

"But  I  am  particularly  glad  to  see  you  now,"  she 
continued.  "Where  are  you  going?  Have  you  time  to 
walk  a  little  way  with  me  —  or  I  will  walk  with  you, 
if  you  are  in  a  hurry." 

Apparently  William  had  time,  for  he  turned  at  once. 
"Well?"  he  asked. 

Abbie  regarded  him  for  a  moment.  "  I  have  been 
into  Harriet's,"  she  said.  "I  saw  the  doctor's  old 
white  horse  apparently  hailing  from  there,  and  I  went 
over." 

William  looked  sympathetic.  "I  hope  there's  no 
thing  the  matter." 

"No,"  she  returned,  "not  with  Harriet."  She  was 
50 


OLD  HARBOR 


silent  for  the  space  of  two  breaths.  "  I  may  as  well  out 
with  it  at  once.  Eben  has  come  home." 

To  her  surprise,  William  laughed.  "  So  that  was  it," 
he  remarked. 

Abbie  stopped  short.  "  William,"  said  she,  "  what 
do  you  mean?" 

William  told  her,  as  briefly  as  he  could,  his  expe 
rience  of  the  night  before.  "And,"  he  concluded, 
"  she  took  the  pains  to  assure  me  that  no  man  could 
be  there.  So  there  was  nothing  left  for  Clanky  and  me 
to  do  but  to  take  ourselves  off  as  fast  as  possible." 

Abbie  was  looking  at  him  intently.  "  Do  you  mean 
to  say,"  she  asked,  "that  you  believe  that  Harriet 
knew  it  all  the  time  —  knew  that  Eben  was  there  ?  For 
I  suppose  it  was  he." 

William  nodded.  "I  suppose  it  was  —  naturally. 
But  I  distinctly  do  not  mean  to  say  that  I  have  any  be 
lief  about  it.  Those  are  the  facts.  You  can  draw  what 
inference  you  choose  —  or  what  you  must.  Of  course, 
you  or  I  would  much  rather  not  attach  any  importance 
to  the  circumstance  at  all.  The  fact  remains  that  I  was 
packed  off  very  unceremoniously  and  finally.  And," 
he  added,  with  some  slight  show  of  feeling,  "  I  did  n't 
like  it." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  Abbie  gazed  at 
him  with  wide  eyes.  "  Of  course  you  did  n't  like  it," 
she  said.  A  laugh  was  growing  in  her  eyes,  and  at  last 
she  smiled.  "  It 's  too  absurd,  William,  to  think  of  Har 
riet  as  a  conspirator.  She's  the  essence  of  truth.  You 

51 


OLD  HARBOR 


would  be  the  last  person  whose  feelings  she  would  wish 
to  hurt  —  " 

William  interrupted  her.  "That's  just  it,"  he  said 
earnestly.  "Harriet  does  n't  think  about  my  feelings. 
She  seems  to  feel  that  I  have  n't  any." 

Abbie  laughed.  "Well,"  she  returned,  "it's  just  as 
easy  —  is  n't  it  ?  —  to  consider  the  whole  thing  as  just 
happening  so  and  of  no  importance.  So  let's." 

William  laughed  out  at  that.    "All  right." 

Meanwhile,  Eben's  fever  had  increased.  He  could 
eat  nothing  of  the  breakfast  which  Miss  Harriet  had 
prepared  with  such  care,  but  tossed  as  he  lay,  and 
babbled  of  something  —  Harriet  could  not  make  out 
what  —  of  which  he  seemed  to  be  in  great  terror. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  street  that  Harriet  Joyce's  house  was  on  had 
been  the  highroad,  and  during  the  prosperity  of  Old 
Harbor  there  had  grown  up  on  it  many  an  old  square 
house.  They  were  generous  and  dignified,  these  old 
houses,  standing  well  back  from  the  street,  high  on  their 
terraces,  the  lawns  shaded  by  noble  old  elms.  In  sum 
mer,  the  cool  winds  blew  through  the  wide  halls,  which 
opened  at  front  and  at  back ;  and  in  winter,  fires  roared 
in  the  great  chimneys,  and  the  firelight  shone  on  queer 
deep-sea  shells,  or  on  grotesque  carven  idols,  or  on 
tables  inlaid  with  ebony  and  ivory. 

The  prosperity  of  Old  Harbor  had  been  due  to  its 
ships.  Now  that  there  were  no  ships,  —  or  next  to  none, 

—  there  was  no  prosperity  worth  mentioning.    There 
was  nothing  left  but  memories  and  these  relics:  the 
shells  and  the  idols  and  the  inlaid  tables.    The  sons 
and  daughters  of  the  old  shipowners  would  not  have 
had  it  otherwise  —  since  the  ships  were  not. 

The  street  that  Harriet  Joyce's  house  was  on  was  the 
highroad  yet,  although  it  had  fallen  from  its  high  estate 
when  it  bore  on  its  hard  back  two  express  stages  a  day 

—  two  each  way.   Its  back  was  as  hard  as  ever ;  but, 
beyond  the  limits  of  the  aforesaid  old  square  houses, 
it  felt  no  greater  burden  than  the  occasional  farmer's 

53 


OLD  HARBOR 


horse,  trotting  heavily  to  a  market,  such  as  it  was,  with 
his  load  behind  him. 

Out  on  this  road,  just  where  it  forked,  was  the  Old 
Green  —  the  New  Green  being  nearer  the  town,  and 
itself  a  century  old,  although  it  had  been  embellished, 
more  recently,  with  a  curb  of  cut  granite  and  a  fence  of 
bronze,  the  result  of  the  activity  of  the  Improvement 
Society.  The  Old  Green  was  guiltless  of  any  such 
embellishment,  and  continued  to  mark,  humbly  and 
unobtrusively,  the  dividing  of  the  ways;  and  just  be 
yond  the  Old  Green  there  stood,  corner  to  the  road,  a 
little  old  house  with  sagging  roof  and  one  big  chimney 
sticking  up  through  the  middle  of  it.  It  was  a  very  old 
house,  planted  there  before  the  right  fork  of  the  road 
was  a  road  at  all,  which  sufficiently  accounts  for  its 
position.  It  had  a  pleasant  prospect:  woods  and  fields, 

—  more  woods  and  less  fields  than  had  been,  —  and  it 
must  have  had  a  good  view  of  the  stage  for  a  half  mile 
in  either  direction,  when  there  was  a  stage  to  see. 

For  the  prosperity  of  the  little  old  house  was  past,  too. 
Now,  it  looked  tidy,  to  be  sure,  but  decrepit ;  there  was 
an  occasional  squawk  from  one  of  the  hens  that  stood  on 
one  leg  in  the  sunshine  — no  doubt  much  as  it  had  been 
in  the  day  that  was  past ;  strings  of  sliced  apples  hung 
over  the  door  and  under  the  windows,  drying  in  the  sun 

—  which  was  also,  no  doubt,  much  as  had  been ;  and, 
on  a  bench  beside  the  door,  —  and  this  wTas  not  at  all 
as  it  had  been,  — on  this  bench,  I  say,  sat  Clanky  Beg. 

Clanky  Beg  sat  on  the  bench,  in  the  sun,  blinking 
54 


OLD  HARBOR 


and  thinking  upon  nothing  in  particular  after  the  man 
ner  of  domestic  animals,  —  I  say  nothing  about  wild 
animals,  knowing  nothing  about  them  except  what  I 
have  seen,  and  I  have  no  competent  witnesses  of  that, — 
and  he  stretched  at  his  length  and  had  his  great  hands 
slipped  into  the  pockets  of  his  trousers  and  his  big 
head  leaned  against  the  shingles  of  the  house.  He  was 
gazing  out,  with  a  look  of  content,  over  green  fields  and 
pastures  new  —  no,  not  new,  for  things  that  were  new 
were  not  in  fashion  in  Old  Harbor,  except  with  the 
Improvement  Society.  They  never  had  been  in  fashion. 
And  the  fields  were  no  longer  green.  What  Clanky  Beg 
saw,  as  he  sat  there  in  the  warm  sunshine,  were  fields 
that  were  sere  and  brown,  with,  here  and  there,  patches 
of  bay  and  berry  bushes  spreading  over  them ;  and  they 
stretched  away  until  they  met  the  woods,  and  they  had 
a  fringe  of  smaller  trees  at  the  far  side.  Those  smaller 

O 

trees  ranged  all  the  way  from  sturdy  striplings  of  thirty 
years  to  the  slender  red  seedlings  on  the  outer  edge; 
and  somewhere  within  the  fringe  would  be  found  an 
old  stone  wall.  Clanky  smiled  as  he  thought  of  that. 
He  loved  those  woods. 

A  little  woman  who  seemed  old  —  as  old  as  the  house 

—  opened  the  door  and  put  her  head  out.    "  Clanky," 

she  called.   It  was  no  less  than  wonderful  to  hear  her 

voice.   It  sounded  sweet  as  bells,  but  it  was  not  a  sweet 

voice. 

Clanky  started  up  with  an  alertness  that  was  pathetic, 
it  told  so  much  of  his  story. 

55 


OLD  HARBOR 


"Yes,  ma'am,  mother  Loughery,"  he  answered 
quickly,  dog-like  love  showing  in  his  shining  eyes. 
"  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  I  'm  a'ready  to  do 
an 'thing  for  you." 

"  Bless  you,  Clanky,boy,"  said  Mrs.  Loughery,  heart 
ily,  "I  know  that.  'T  is  not  much  I  'd  be  askin'  of 
you.  'T  is  only  that  you  '11  look  after  Joe  whiles 
I'm  gone,  and  give  him  his  medicine  reg'lar,  and  stay 
within  call  of  him.  Joe  '11  tell  you  when  it 's  time  for 
the  medicine.  I've  to  go  down  the  road  a  bit,  to  sell 
my  yarbs." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  I  will,"  replied  Clanky,  earnestly.  "  I 
will,  faithful." 

"  Bless  you,  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Loughery  again,  "  you  're 
a  comfort."  She  turned  into  the  house  and  shut  the  door. 
"  It's  warm  in  the  sun,  but  there's  the  feel  of  winter  — 
the  feel  of  winter.  My  Joe  must  n't  get  it.  Ah,  well " 
She  stopped  where  she  stood.  "I  wronder,  now, 
would  n't  he  be  better  for  a  breath  of  the  air  and  a  bit 
of  the  warm  sun.  I'll  ask  him  would  n't  he  like  it.  I 
know  I'd  as  soon  die  as  be  cooped  up  in  the  house." 
She  opened  the  door  into  the  kitchen.  A  boy  of  about 
twenty  sat  in  a  rocking-chair  near  the  stove,  with  a 
shawl  about  his  shoulders  and  another  about  his  knees. 
His  cheeks  were  hollow  and  his  eyes  were  big.  He 
looked  up  as  his  mother  entered  and  smiled  at  her. 

"Now,  Joe,  dear,"  she  said,  "it's  come  to  me  that 
mebbe  you  'd  like  to  go  out  where  Clanky  sits  for  a  bit. 
The  sun 's  warm  and  there 's  no  wind  there.  Would  you, 

56 


OLD  HARBOR 


Joe  ?  He  '11  take  your  chair  out  —  Clanky  will  —  and 
see  't  you're  wrapped  snug."  She  spoke  anxiously. 

Joe  was  smiling  still.   "All  right,  mother.  I'll  go." 

Mrs.  Loughery  opened  the  door  again  and  called 
Clanky  Beg,  who  came  at  once  and  took  Joe's  chair 
and  bore  it  out,  and  set  it  carefully  where  there  was  not 
the  lightest  breath  of  wind.  Then  Joe  walked,  rather 
feebly,  toward  the  door.  His  mother  watched  him 
anxiously. 

"Be  good,  now,  Joe, dear.  I'll  only  be  gone  a  little 
while." 

Joe  looked  at  her  and  smiled  again.  His  mother  was 
tucking  a  clean  white  cloth  in  around  the  herbs  that 
filled  the  basket.  "  Yes,  mother,"  he  said.  "I'll  be—" 
Then  he  coughed.  He  had  to  stop,  in  his  short  journey, 
and  lean  against  the  door  until  he  was  through. 

She  came  over  to  him  quickly.  "There,  now, 
Joe,"  she  said,  putting  her  arm  around  him.  "There, 
there,  now.  The  cough,  Joe,  darlin',  —  it's  easier  than 
it  was?" 

He  nodded  assent  —  he  could  not  speak,  at  once  — 
and  she  kissed  him. 

"Bless  you,  Joe!  Now,  take  my  arm,  and  we'll  go 
out  together." 

Clanky  ran  to  help  her  and,  together,  they  settled 
the  smiling  Joe  in  his  chair.  It  was  a  brave  Joe,  for 
he  knew  what  he  had  to  expect,  and  that  soon ;  almost 
certainly  before  another  winter,  and  he  would  be  doing 
well  —  he  would  be  lucky  —  if  he  saw  the  spring  again. 

57 


OLD  HARBOR 


But  he  smiled  and  was  cheerful.  His  mother  knew,  too, 
although  she  was  not  ready  to  acknowledge  it  to  herself. 

When  she  had  Joe  well  tucked  in,  she  went  into  the 
house  again,  and  came  out  almost  at  once  with  her 
basket  on  her  arm. 

"Now  I'll  be  goin'.  Good-by,  Joe,  dear.  Good-by, 
Clanky,  boy." 

"Good-by,  ma'am,  mother  Loughery,"  called 
Clanky.  Joe  only  nodded,  and  watched  her  with  wist 
ful  affection  as  she  walked  briskly  down  the  road. 

Mrs.  Loughery  was  not  an  old  woman,  although  her 
face,  lined  and  bronzed  by  sun  and  wind  and  weather, 
made  her  seem  so.  It  was  a  witch's  face,  or  it  would 
have  been  but  for  the  cheerful  smile  that  was  so  ready. 
Old  Harbor  was  well  used  to  Mrs.  Loughery's  cheeri- 
ness,  and  as  to  her  witch's  face,  why,  it  never  once 
thought  of  that. 

It  was  a  walk  of  nearly  two  miles  that  she  had  before 
her,  but  she  made  nothing  of  it,  although  she  was  ready 
enough  to  take  a  lift  in  a  farmer's  wagon,  if  one  came 
that  way.  There  was  no  farmer  driving  to  market  on 
that  morning,  it  seemed  —  perhaps  the  farmers  went 
earlier.  It  was  early  yet,  too  early,  one  would  have 
thought,  to  expect  to  be  successful  in  an  errand  such 
as  hers.  Mrs.  Loughery  knew  better.  She  knew  that 
the  less  the  women  of  Old  Harbor  had  to  do,  the  earlier 
they  seemed  to  think  that  they  had  to  get  up.  Miss 
Joyce  breakfasted  at  seven,  the  year  around;  Mrs. 
Catherwood,  at  half-past  seven. 

58 


OLD  HARBOR 


She  came,  at  length,  to  that  part  of  the  road  where 
the  road  ceased  to  be  a  road  and  became  a  street ;  where 
the  old  square  houses  made  an  array  of  which  Old 
Harborites  were  inordinately  proud.  As  she  walked 
along,  under  the  elms,  now  bare  of  leaves,  she  glanced 
up  at  each  house  that  she  passed,  but  she  did  not  stop. 
At  last  she  was  walking  by  a  low  fence  of  three  rails, 
with  thick  shrubbery  behind  it.  She  looked  up,  quickly, 
at  the  windows  of  a  house  which  she  could  just  see 
above  the  shrubbery. 

"Mis'  Catherwood  '11  want  some,  mebbe,"  she  said. 
"I'll  just  step  in  an'  see." 

She  passed  the  front  gate  and,  a  little  farther  on, 
entered  at  a  lesser  gate.  This  opened  upon  a  plank 
walk,  which  led  her  up  by  the  driveway,  past  the  old 
box-bordered  garden,  and  up  some  steps  to  the  terrace 
at  the  side  of  the  house.  Here  she  set  her  basket  down 
and  prepared,  in  a  leisurely  way,  to  knock ;  but  before 
she  was  quite  ready  to  do  so,  the  door  opened  suddenly 
and  a  girl  darted  out,  almost  knocking  the  old  woman 
over. 

She  was  a  slim  slip  of  a  girl,  with  merry  eyes  and 
quantities  of  fair  hair,  which,  doubtless,  had  been 
smoothly  confined  in  the  braid  that  hung  far  down 
her  back.  It  was  not  smooth  now,  but  the  straggling 
locks  blew  over  her  face  and  into  her  eyes.  She  brushed 
them  back  impatiently  with  her  hand. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Loughery!"  she  cried.  "I'm  very 
sorry.  I  hope  I  did  n't  hurt  you." 

59 


OLD  HARBOR 


The  old  woman  smiled  affectionately.  "Bless  your 
lovin'  heart,  dear,"  she  said,  "you  couldna  hurt 
me." 

At  this  the  girl  smiled,  too.  "Now  you  know  that's 
flattery  —  pure  flattery,  Mrs.  Loughery.  You  'd  say  the 
same  thing  if  I  'd  knocked  you  down  and  trampled 
on  you.  It's  not  my  fault  that  I  did  n't.  I'm  very 
heedless.  What  have  you  got,  to-day  ?  " 

"Why,  I've  got  some  yarbs,"  Mrs.  Loughery  an 
swered.  "Your  ma  don't  want  no  yarbs  to-day,  do  she, 
dear?  I  just  thought  I'd  step  in  an'  see  if  mebbe  she 
did."  She  uncovered  the  basket,  which  was  full,  to 
the  top,  of  bundles  of  dried  herbs.  They  gave  forth  a 
pleasant,  pungent  smell. 

The  girl  bent  over  them  for  an  instant  and  inhaled 
their  fragrance.  "They  smell  of  all  sorts  of  things," 
she  said,  "and  some  of  them  are  pleasant  and  some 
of  them  are  not.  My  last  impression  is  of  thorough- 
wort  and  wormwood,  and  wormwood  tea  is  not  nice." 

Mrs.  Loughery  laughed.  "There's  thoroughwort 
and  wormwood  here,  but  there's  a  lot  else.  The  worm 
wood's  clear  to  the  bottom  of  the  basket." 

"Well,"  said  the  girl,  "I'll  call  mother,  but  I  hope 
she  won't  get  any  wormwood.  Will  you  come  in  ?" 

"  It's  kind  o'  nice  an'  sunny  out  here,"  replied  Mrs. 
Loughery,  hesitating.  "  I  like  to  be  out  whiles  I  can  be. 
But  if  your  ma'd  rather  —  I'll  just  set  right  here  on  the 
step,  I  guess,  an'  then  if  your  ma  wants  I  should  come 
in,  I'll  come.  An',  dearie,  wormwood  tea's  good  for 

60 


OLD  HARBOR 


you,  in  its  season.  I  do'  know  's  I  should  call  it  nice, 
though,"  she  added  thoughtfully. 

"You  couldn't  call  it  nice,"  said  the  girl,  "if  you 
are  a  truthful  person  —  that  is,  unless  your  taste  has 
been  depraved."  She  went  in,  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
and  called  softly. 

"Mother,  here's  Mrs.  Loughery  with  a  basket  of 
yarbs.  She  just  thought  she  'd  step  in  and  see  if  you 
wanted  any,  mebbe." 

The  girl's  voice  was  low  and  musical,  so  that  it  was 
a  pleasure  to  hear  her  speak.  Her  mother  must  have 
been  of  the  same  opinion, — although  mothers'  opinions 
count  for  little,  —  for  she  came  to  the  head  of  the  stairs 
and  she  was  laughing  quietly. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Loughery  there,  dear  ?  I  want  to  see  her. 
I  have  been  meaning  to  send  out  to  ask  how  Joe  is 
getting  on.  But  you  should  n't  mimic  her,  Constance. 
She 's  very  fond  of  you,  and  she  has  a  great  deal  to  bear. 
She  is  wonderfully  cheerful  under  it  all.  I  only  hope 
that  we  should  be  able  to  do  as  well."  Mrs.  Gather- 
wood,  who  had  been  coming  down  as  she  spoke,  kissed 
her  daughter.  "Now,  run  along,  Conny." 

Constance  only  lifted  a  smiling  face  and  slipped  her 
hand  through  her  mother's  arm,  and,  together,  they 
went  back  to  the  waiting  old  woman. 

Mrs.  Catherwood  had  been  a  great  beauty.  She  was 
a  beautiful  woman  still;  indeed,  she  was  more  than 
that.  For,  although  there  was  a  strong  resemblance 
between  her  and  Harriet  Joyce,  —  Harriet,  to  be  sure, 

61 


OLD  HARBOR 


had  never  had  such  beauty,  —  Mrs.  Catherwood's 
beauty  was  mellowed  by  the  experiences  which  her 
sister  had  not  had;  which,  it  was  to  be  feared,  Miss 
Harriet  had  begun  not  to  desire. 

Mrs.  Loughery  was  sitting  on  the  step,  but  she  jumped 
to  her  feet  as  Mrs.  Catherwood  and  Constance  came 
near. 

"May  Heaven  bless  ye,  Mis'  Catherwood,"  she 
cried,  "an'  Miss  Conny,  too.  Do  ye  want  any  yarbs 
to-day,  dear  ?  Do  ye,  now  ?  An'  do  ye  want  I  should 
come  in  the  house,  or  will  it  do  ye  out  here  ?  It  '11  be 
just  as  you  please,  Mis'  Catherwood,  dear,  but  —  but 
it's  nice  an'  sunny  out  here,  now,  ain't  it?" 

Mrs.  Catherwood  smiled  at  Mrs.  Loughery  and  at 
the  exuberance  of  her  greeting.  It  was  characteristic. 

"Why,  I'll  just  sit  down  on  the  step  with  you,  Mrs. 
Loughery,"  she  said.  "The  herbs  are  more  used  to 
sunshine." 

"So  am  I,"  returned  the  old  woman,  quickly,  "and 
to  rain  and  wind  and  weather.  We  like  it  well,  so  be 
it 's  not  shutting  ourselves  within  four  walls.  The 
yarbs  '11  show  better  out  here  in  the  sun." 

Mrs.  Catherwood  sat  down  on  the  step,  with  Con 
stance  looking  over  her  shoulder,  while  Mrs.  Loughery 
showed  her  wares  and  praised  their  virtues.  She  had 
some  skill  at  it,  so  that  it  happened  that  the  pile  of 
herbs  that  were  to  be  left  included  about  all  she  had. 
Mrs.  Catherwood  laughed,  when  she  saw  that.  She 
would  take  the  rest. 

62 


OLD  HARBOR 


Mrs.  Loughery  beamed.  "You'll  not  be  sorry," 
she  said.  "There's  not  many  has  such  yarbs  as  mine, 
if  I  do  say  it.  Now  I'll  just  take  them  in  for  you, 
Mis'  Catherwood." 

"I  must  get  my  purse."  Mrs.  Catherwood  rose. 
"How  is  Joe  getting  on,  Mrs.  Loughery  ?  I  hope  he  is 
better." 

The  old  woman  turned,  her  hands  filled  with  the 
herbs,  and  smiled.  "Nicely,  thank  you,  Mis'  Cather 
wood.  He  don't  cough  much;  leastways,  not  much 
more  'n  he  did.  If  —  I  wish  't  spring  was  comin',  'stid 
o'  winter.  It  worries  him  't  he  canna  work,  an'  coal 
to  buy.  But  p'r'aps  I  can  think  o'  somethin'  for  him 
to  do.  I  keep  a-tryin'." 

Mrs.  Catherwood  looked  upon  the  brave  old  woman 
with  pitying  eyes.  "Now  perhaps  I  've  got  some 
things  that  belonged  to  my  Jack.  He  can't  wear  them 
again,  but  they  're  pretty  good  —  a  coat  or  two,  and 
perhaps  I  can  find  something  else.  You  might  take 
them  in  your  basket.*' 

Tears  came  to  Mrs.  Loughery's  eyes.  "The  Lord 
be  good  to  you,  Mis'  Catherwood !  If  you  're  sure  you 
don't  want  them  things,  I  'd  be  proud  to  take  'em." 

So  Mrs.  Catherwood  departed,  with  Constance,  to 
find  the  coat  or  two  and  the  something  else.  There 
was  a  trunk  full  of  cast-off  garments  in  the  attic, 
against  just  such  occasions. 

Mrs.  Loughery  was  a  widow ;  so  long  a  widow  that 
the  memory  of  the  late  Michael  had  become  idealized 

63 


OLD  HARBOR 


out  of  all  semblance  to  reality.  No  one  who  had  known 
Mike  Loughery  in  the  flesh  would  have  recognized 
the  portrait  which  lingered  in  the  mind  of  his  loving 
relict.  He  had  been  a  pleasant,  good-natured  man, 
rather  inclined  to  shiftlessness.  Many  a  time,  in  the 
years  gone  by,  Francis  Catherwood  had  employed 
him  on  small  jobs  about  the  place ;  and  many  a  time 
he  had  smiled  as  he  suddenly  realized  that,  for  hours, 
he  had  been  laboring  with  the  spade  and  wheeling 
the  barrow  and  doing  other  things  that  he  had  had 
no  intention  of  doing  —  the  very  things  he  had  Mike 
there  to  do.  Mike,  meanwhile,  had  stood  in  an  attitude 
of  intense  admiration,  his  arms  akimbo,  throwing 
in  his  "Yis,  sor,"  or  an  occasional  "Look  a'  that, 
now";  all  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  eager  to  learn. 
It  was  characteristic  of  Mike  that  he  should  let  Mr. 
Catherwood  do  his  work  that  he  expected  to  be  paid 
for.  But  that  was  when  Mr.  Catherwood  was  but  just 
married,  and  before  he  became  Colonel  Catherwood. 
In  the  process  of  becoming  a  colonel,  he  had  learned 
better.  Mike  might  have  learned  to  do  his  own  work 
if  he  had  lived  —  and  enlisted,  as  he  surely  would  have 
done.  Mike  would  not  have  become  a  colonel.  He 
might  have  become  a  sergeant,  and  a  good  one;  for 
Mike  Loughery  dearly  loved  a  fight. 

He  had  been  a  good  enough  husband.  He  had  always 
treated  his  wife  well,  which,  indeed,  might  have  been 
no  more  than  a  piece  of  nice  calculation  on  his  part, 
for  he  was  somewhat  dependent  on  her  industry,  and 

64 


OLD  HARBOR 


he  was  wise  enough  to  know  it.  But  Mrs.  Loughery 
did  not  look  upon  it  in  that  light.  If  Mike  indulged, 
more  or  less  frequently,  in  the  cup  that  inebriates  but 
does  not  cheer,  and  invariably  got  into  a  fight  there 
after,  it  was  never  his  wife  who  mentioned  it.  He  was 
meek  and  biddable  during  his  recovery.  And  when  the 
time  came  that  he  was  brought  home  from  one  of  his 
frays  with  a  fractured  skull,  she  took  care  of  him,  for 
the  few  hours  of  life  that  were  left  to  him,  with  an  un 
complaining  devotion  that  was  worthy  of  a  better  man. 
After  that,  she  devoted  herself  to  his  memory  and  to  the 
care  of  her  two  boys.  It  was  for  these  same  boys  that 
Mrs.  Catherwood  had  opened  that  trunk  in  the  attic. 

Mrs.  Loughery  took  the  armful  of  garments  and 
stuffed  them  into  her  basket.  "  May  heaven  bless  ye, 
Mis'  Catherwood!"  she  said.  "Mebbe  one  o'  these '11 
do  for  Clanky,  too,  if  you  won't  mind  his  wearin'  it. 
He's  a  real  good  boy." 

Mrs.  Catherwood  smiled.  "Do  you  really  find  him  a 
help,  Mrs.  Loughery?"  she  asked.  "I  was  afraid  you 
might  find  him  only  an  additional  burden.  I  think  you 
had  enough  to  do  already." 

"Lord  bless  ye,  Mis'  Catherwood,"  answered  Mrs. 
Loughery,  straightening  up  from  her  basket  and 
speaking  earnestly.  "Clanky  's  the  greatest  help.  He 
takes  care  o'  the  chickens  an'  splits  all  my  wood  for  me 
an'  clears  up  in  the  house.  I  have  but  to  show  him  the 
once  an'  fix  the  day  for  it.  Why,  Clanky 's  real  —  real 
intellectual." 

65 


OLD  HARBOR 


Mrs.  Loughery  laughed  as  she  said  it,  and  Mrs. 
Catherwood  laughed  with  her.  "Where  is  Mike?" 
she  asked.  "Why  does  n't  he  help  with  your  chores? 
Has  he  got  work  yet?" 

"Oh,  Mike's  home,  off  and  on.  He  has  n't  just  to 
say  got  work,"  replied  Mrs.  Loughery,  with  a  sorrow 
ful  smile,  "  but  he  says  he  hopes  for  it  —  that  it 's  as 
good  as  promised.  Sometimes  I  think  that  mebbe  he 
don't  want  to  find  it,  for  he 's  said  the  same  thing  t'  me 
a  many  times.  But  there!  I  won't  doubt  my  Mike. 
Work's  hard  enough  to  find  for  them  as  hasn't  it." 

"Mike  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself,"  said  Mrs. 
Catherwood,  "to  let  you  support  him  in  idleness. 
There  must  be  a  dozen  different  things  that  he  could 
do.  He's  a  man,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes,  dear,"  answered  Mrs.  Loughery,  "and  a 
strong,  fine  man,  too.  But  he  — 

Mrs.  Loughery  hesitated,  and  decided  not  to  finish 
what  she  had  begun.  Mrs.  Catherwood  smiled,  for  she 
knew. 

"You  tell  him  to  come  here  next  week,"  she  said. 
"There's  plenty  of  work  to  be  done  on  the  place.  His 
father  was  not  ashamed  to  do  it." 

Mrs.  Catherwood  smiled  again,  remembering  how 
his  father  had  done  his  work.  But  the  quick  tears  came 
to  Mrs.  Loughery 's  eyes. 

"  Ah,  his  father ! "  she  cried.  "  His  father !  If  my  boy 
was  like  him!  But  it's  not  ashamed  he'd  be  of  any 
kind  of  work  whatever.  Never  fear  that.  I '11  see  that 

66 


OLD  HARBOR 


he  comes.  He'll  come,"  concluded  Mrs.  Loughery, 
somewhat  grimly. 

Mrs.  Catherwood  nodded,  but  said  nothing,  and  the 
old  woman  bent  to  take  up  her  basket. 

"Well,  Mis'  Catherwood,  I'll  be  goin',"  she  said. 
"  'T  is  good  o'  you  to  be  minded  of  us."  She  hesitated, 
as  though  she  wanted  to  say  something  else,  but  hardly 
knew  how.  "  Mr.  Eben  —  is  he  gettin'  on  well  ?  Can  he 
be  out  yet  ?  The  sun  would  do  a  body  good  to-day." 

"Mr.  Eben  is  getting  along  nicely  now,"  answered 
Mrs.  Catherwood.  There  was  very  little  use  in  trying 
to  make  a  secret  of  anything  that  happened  in  Old 
Harbor.  "  He  cannot  go  away  from  the  house  yet,  but 
he  has  been  out  in  the  garden  every  day  for  a  week. 
I  have  no  doubt  that  he  is  there  now." 

"  I  'd  like  to  go  into  Miss  Harriet's  an'  pay  my  re 
spects  to  him  some  day  soon  —  as  soon  's  he  's  able 
to  see  such  as  I,"  said  Mrs.  Loughery,  almost  shyly. 
"  It 's  many  a  long  year  since  I '  ve  seen  Mr.  Eben ;  an' 
he  such  a  handsome,  likely  boy.  I  hear  't  he  hasna 
been  well  for  a  long  time  before  he  —  before  he  came 
back." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Catherwood,  "he  does  not  seem  to 
have  been,  although  we  do  not  know  what  has  been 
the  matter  with  him.  But  we  hope  he'll  be  all  right 
now.  Harriet  takes  good  care  of  him." 

"Yes,  bless  her!"  said  Mrs.  Loughery.  She  smiled, 
still  shyly,  as  she  went  on.  "  It  was  at  the  apothecary's 
that  I  heard  he'd  not  been  well.  I  go  in  there  some- 

67 


OLD  HARBOR 


times  with  my  yarbs,  though  it's  hard  enough  to  sell 
anything  to  MacLean.  He's  canny,  MacLean.  But 
he  always  has  the  last  word  of  gossip,  an'  I  get  my 
money's  worth  in  that." 

Constance's  eyes  had  been  dancing  since  the  first 
mention  of  MacLean.  "  Varra  fine  herbs,  Mrs.  Lough- 
ery,"  she  said,  "varra  fine  herbs.  But"  —  here  she 
looked  as  cunning  as  Mr.  MacLean  himself,  and  made 
a  gesture  that  only  he  would  have  made  —  "  are  ye 
cerrtain  that  they're  the  true  medeecinal  herbs?  An' 
our  price  that  we  pay  is  twa  bunches  for  a  penny." 
With  that,  she  kicked  out  her  leg  awkwardly. 

Mrs.  Loughery  was  laughing  so  that  the  tears  stood 
in  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  dearie,"  she  cried,  "  it's  MacLean  to 
the  life  —  but  that  you're  too  large  for  the  little  man. 
The  way  he  kicks  out  with  his  leg,  too.  Did  you  ever 
see  the  like  of  it,  Mis'  Catherwood  —  of  Miss  Conny's 
taking  him  off?" 

Mrs.  Catherwood  was  smiling  in  spite  of  herself. 
"Constance  is  a  great  mimic,  Mrs.  Loughery.  She 
can't  resist  every  chance  that  offers.  She  does  n't  mean 
anything  ill-natured  by  it." 

"Of  course  she  does  n't,  the  dear!"  said  Mrs. 
Loughery.  "  She  could  n't  mean  anything  ill-natured 
if  she  wanted  to."  The  old  woman  had  had  her  basket 
on  her  arm  all  this  time.  "Well,  now  I'm  really  goin'. 
May  the  Lord  be  good  to  ye,  Mis'  Catherwood !  May 
you  always  be  rollin'  in  grandeur  as  you  are  now!" 

Having  delivered  this  parting  benediction,  Mrs. 
68 


OLD  HARBOR 


Loughery  walked  off  briskly.  Constance  laughed 
softly  as  she  watched  her  go  down  the  plank  walk. 

"Oh,  mother!"  she  said.  "'Rollin'  in  grandeur  as 
you  are  now ! '  But  I  see  daddy  coming  and,  if  you  '11 
excuse  me,  I'll  leave  you  to  roll  in  solitary  grandeur 
while  I  go  to  meet  him." 

Mrs.  Catherwood  walked  slowly  to  the  steps  leading 
to  the  piazza  from  the  terrace.  She  was  smiling  to  her 
self,  although  she  probably  was  not  aware  of  it,  and 
there  was  a  light  in  her  eyes  that  any  husband  should 
be  glad  to  see  in  his  wife's  eyes  after  more  than  twenty- 
five  years;  although  she  probably  was  not  aware  of 
that,  either.  She  watched  the  erect,  youthful  figure  of 
her  husband,  as  he  stopped  and  said  a  few  words  to  Mrs . 
Loughery,  and  she  saw  that  prodigal  old  woman  pour 
forth  a  blessing;  she  could  almost  hear  the  words, 
although  it  was  not  one  of  the  "rollin5  in  grandeur" 
kind.  People  were  not  apt  to  say  that  sort  of  thing  to 
him,  no  one  could  say  just  why.  And  she  saw  Mrs. 
Loughery  go  on  her  way  again,  and  Constance  run  to 
meet  him.  He  held  out  his  arms  to  her,  and  she  threw 
her  arms  around  his  neck  and  kissed  him.  Shocking ! 
Right  there  on  the  public  street,  with  all  the  elms  to 
see !  Then  he  looked  up  at  the  great  square  house,  and 
he  waved  his  hand  to  his  wife  as  she  stood  waiting  on 
the  piazza,  and  she  waved  back  again. 

"The  dears!"  she  said.   "The  dears!" 

She  watched  them  both,  as  they  opened  the  front 
gate  and  came  up  the  long  walk,  Constance  hanging 

69 


OLD  HARBOR 


on  to  her  father's  arm,  and  taking  ridiculously  long 
strides  in  the  effort  to  keep  in  step  with  him.  They 
were  at  the  foot  of  the  long  flight  of  steps. 

"I'll  race  you  to  mother,  daddy,"  cried  Constance, 
and  started  running  up  the  steps. 

"  What ! "  he  said.  He  took  the  steps  three  at  a  time. 
"  Constance,  that  —  was  —  not  —  fair.  You  "  —  he 
passed  her  —  "had  a  start.  This  —  is"  —  he  reached 
the  top  —  "a  most  undignified  manner  in  which  to  com 
pel  a  gentleman  to  arrive  at  his  house."  Mrs.  Cather- 
wood  was  waiting  for  him,  and  he  kissed  her.  "  Con 
stance,  you  forget  that  your  daddy  is  getting  on  in 
years,  and  is  quite  —  er  —  decrepit.  But  your  mother 
is  the  goal,  Conny.  She  is  the  goal." 

Constance  only  laughed  scornfully. 

"Decrepit,  Frank!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Catherwood. 
"You  decrepit!" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  am  not  what  I  was,  and  if  I  am 
not  decrepit  now,  I  shall  be.  A  man  who  has  a  son 
just  back  from  England  has  a  right  to  be;  he  has  no 
right  not  to  be." 

Mrs.  Catherwood  was  all  eagerness  now.  "Jack 
back!  Is  he  back?  Have  you  heard  from  him?" 

Colonel  Catherwood  took  a  letter  from  his  pocket 
and  waved  it  above  his  head.  "Had  this  this  morning. 
Landed  in  New  York  yesterday.  Home  to-morrow. 
That 's  what  I  'm  home  for.  Why  did  you  think?" 

And  he  placed  the  precious  letter  in  the  hands  that 
were  so  eagerly  upraised. 


CHAPTER  VII 

CLANKY  BEG  and  Joe  sat  in  the  sun  before  the  little 
old  house  with  the  sagging  roof.  They  spoke  little. 
Joe  seemed  well  content  to  look  up  and  down  the  old 
turnpike  and  over  at  the  pine  woods,  and  to  drink 
in  the  fresh  air  and  the  sunshine.  Clanky  seemed  well 
content  with  doing  the  same  thing,  although,  now  and 
then,  he  looked  at  Joe  somewhat  anxiously.  Each  time 
he  looked,  the  patient  look  of  pain  on  Joe's  face  was 
less  and  the  peace  and  content  was  greater.  His  fits 
of  coughing  gradually  became  less  frequent  and  less 
severe.  Clanky  smiled  with  pleasure  and  thought  — 
but  I  do  not  know  what  or  how  a  man  thinks,  afflicted 
as  he  was;  if  he  had  been  a  normal  man,  he  would 
have  been  thinking  that  perhaps  — only  perhaps  —  Joe 
would  be  really  better  if  he  could  have  more  sunshine 
and  more  air.  He  might  actually  come  to  love  life  again 
and  to  cling  to  it;  a  love  that  he  had  insensibly  lost 
—  oh,  completely  —  some  months  before.  As  Clanky 
thought  his  thoughts  that  must  have  been  somewhere 
near  the  equivalent  of  these,  a  change  of  wind,  for  an 
instant,  wafted  to  them  the  incense  of  the  pines. 

Joe  sniffed  it  eagerly.  "That's  beautiful,  Clanky," 
he  said;  "it's  lovely.  I  wish,"  he  added  wistfully,  after 
a  little  pause,  "  that  I  was  able  to  walk  as  far  as  those 

71 


OLD  HARBOR 


woods.  Oh,  I  wish  I  was."  He  laughed  softly  and 
sighed.  "But  I  'm  not,  and  there  's  an  end  of  it." 

Clanky  responded  to  the  longing  in  Joe's  voice.  He 
hitched  nearer  on  the  bench.  "  Joe,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  hardly  more  than  a  whisper,  as  though  he  was 
fearful  that  some  one  would  overhear  the  news,  —  "  Joe, 
I  got  a  house  in  those  pines.  Don't  you  tell,  now  don't 
you !  Mother  Loughery  don't  know  it,  and  Mike  don't 
know  it.  There  don't  anybody  know  it  but  me  and 
you."  He  hitched  still  nearer  to  the  chair  and  whis 
pered,  "I'll  take  you  to  it  —  to  my  house." 

"Oh,  Clanky!"  The  eagerness  in  his  voice  brought 
on  a  fit  of  coughing.  When  it  was  over,  Joe  knew  that 
it  could  not  be.  There  was  no  eagerness  in  his  voice  as 
he  spoke  again,  low  and  slowly.  The  love  of  life  that 
had  flickered  up  for  an  instant  was  gone.  "  Thank  you. 
Thank  you.  You  could  n't  do  it,  Clanky.  I  can't  walk 
so  far  as  that." 

"Needn't  walk,"  said  Clanky,  whispering  again. 
"I'll  carry  you." 

Joe  looked  down  at  Clanky's  legs  —  they  were 
wobbly  legs  and  gave  no  assurance  of  their  per 
formance  of  this  duty.  Then  he  looked  at  Clanky's 
broad  shoulders  and  powerful  arms,  and  sighed  once 
more. 

"No,  Clanky,"  he  said  gently,  "you  couldn't. 
Your  arms  and  shoulders  are  strong  enough.  But  — 
but  your  legs,  Clanky,  —  " 

Clanky  gazed  sorrowfully  down  upon  those  offending 
72 


OLD  HARBOR 


members  —  gazed  at  them  as  if  he  had  but  just  seen 
them.  He  stretched  them  out  and  gazed  again.  Tears 
came  into  his  eyes. 

"I'm  sorry,  Joe,"  he  said  brokenly.  "Clanky's 
sorry  —  sorry  that  his  legs  are  so  bad." 

Joe  put  out  his  hands  impulsively.  "I'm  sorry, 
Clanky  —  very  sorry.  I  should  n't  have  spoken  of  it. 
Never  mind  the  legs.  They  're  good  enough  to  do  all 
kinds  of  things  for  mother,  and  they  're  willing." 

Clanky  looked  up  and  smiled.  "Yes,"  he  said, 
"they  're  willing,  and  they  don't  get  tired  as  they  did. 
At  the  Poor  Farm  they  used  to  get  awful  tired.  They 
were  always  tired  —  always." 

He  spoke  of  it  in  a  matter-of-fact  way  that  would 
have  melted  Mrs.  Loughery's  heart  —  if  her  heart  ever 
needed  to  be  melted.  Joe  looked  away.  Again  the 
gentle  wind  wafted  to  them  the  incense  of  the  pines. 

"Oh!"  said  Joe,  almost  crying  with  his  longing. 
He  craved  to  be  among  those  pines,  although  he  could 
not  have  told  why.  "  Oh,  just  smell  it,  Clanky.  I  wish 
you  could.  I  wish  you  could!" 

Clanky  looked  troubled  and  was  silent.  He  was 
silent  for  so  long  a  time  that,  at  last,  Joe  asked  him 
what  troubled  him. 

"I  been  tryin'  to  think  of  some  way,"  Clanky  re 
plied,  without  looking  up;  "some  way  to  get  you  there. 
And  I  can't." 

His  eyes  met  Joe's  and,  at  the  look  of  helpless  long 
ing  that  he  saw  there,  he  began  to  cry.  Suddenly  he 

73 


OLD  HARBOR 


stopped  crying  and  beamed,  though  the  tears  were  still 
running  down  his  face. 

"  I 've  thought  of  a  way,  Joe.  I've  thought  of  a  way." 

In  his  delight  at  it,  he  got  off  the  bench  and  stood 
on  his  hands.  He  often  did  so,  now.  Indeed,  his 
arms  and  shoulders  were  better  fitted  to  bear  him 
than  his  legs  were.  Still  standing  on  his  hands,  he 
walked  around  Joe  three  times.  Then  he  got  upon  his 
feet  and  capered  weakly. 

"The  old  wagon-wheels  in  the  shed,"  he  said. 
"  They  '11  carry  you." 

Joe  smiled  with  pleasure.  He  and  Clanky  were  like 
two  pleased  children  with  a  new  toy.  They  began  plan 
ning  how  they  should  arrange  the  old  pair  of  worn 
wheels  —  the  fore  wheels  of  some  farm  wagon,  dis 
carded  before  Joe  was  born.  Suddenly  Clanky  stopped. 

"Your  medicine,  Joe!"  he  cried.  "Ain't  it  time? 
An'  I  clean  forgot.  I  said  I  'd  do  it,  faithful,  an'  I 
clean  forgot!" 

Joe  laughed  aloud.  "Bother  the  medicine!  I  don't 
want  it  and  I  don't  need  it,  while  I  can  get  this."  He 
looked  about  him  and  laughed  again.  "  But  —  I  don't 
know.  I  s'pose  I'd  better.  Mother 'd  be  worried.  It 's 
only  half  an  hour  past  the  time,  Clanky.  The  bottle 's 
on  the  mantel  in  the  kitchen  with  a  spoon  'side  of  it." 

So  Joe  had  his  medicine,  which  may  have  relieved 
him  somewhat,  and  would  certainly  hasten  his  end  if 
he  kept  on  with  it. 

"Br-r-r-r!"  he  muttered,  shivering  involuntarily. 
74 


OLD  HARBOR 


"What  's  the  matter,  Joe?"  asked  Clanky,  anx 
iously.  "Ain't  it  smooth?  Can't  I  put  somethin' 
into  it  to  make  it  smooth  ?  Sugar  or  —  or  somethin'  ?" 

"It's  smooth  enough,"  answered  Joe.  "It's  almost 
too  smooth.  But  I  don't  like  the  taste  of  it.  It's  too  — 
too  druggy.  It  don't  taste  clean." 

Clanky  still  looked  doubtful  and  anxious.  Joe  looked 
up  at  him  as  he  stood  holding  the  bottle  in  one  hand 
and  the  spoon  in  the  other,  and  again  he  laughed. 

"You  look  too  funny,  Clanky,"  he  said.  "It's  all 
right.  You  can  put  them  back,  thank  you." 

"  You  did  n't  cough,  Joe,"  cried  Clanky,  trium 
phantly.  "  You  've  laughed  three  times  without  cough 
ing  once." 

Joe  was  suddenly  thoughtful.  "So  I  have,"  he  said. 
"So  I  have.  I  have  n't  done  that  before  for  —  I  don't 
know  how  long.  It  looks  as  if  sun  and  air  were  good, 
Clanky,  does  n't  it  ?"  He  was  silent  for  some  minutes, 
leaning  back  in  his  chair,  a  smile  of  hope  upon  his 
lips.  "I'll  tell  you  what,  Clanky,  I'm  going  to  try  the 
fresh  air  cure  oftener.  When  you  get  those  wheels 
fixed  —  " 

"Yes,"  cried  Clanky,  "then  —  I'm  goin'  to  fix  'em 
right  off,  Joe.  I  '11  bring  'em  out  here,  where  you  can 
see  'em.  I  don't  know,  though,"  he  added,  the  anxious 
look  coming  once  more  into  his  face,  "I  ought  to  do 
my  chores,  now.  There 's  some  work  to  do  in  the  house, 
too,  but  it  won't  take  me  but  a  little  while,  Joe.  Then 
I  '11  fix  the  wheels.  I  will,  honest." 

75 


OLD  HARBOR 


"  I  know  well  you  will,  Clanky,"  Joe  responded,  in 
a  low  voice.  "I  wish  't  I  was  as  sure  of  everybody 
as  I  am  of  you." 

At  which  Clanky  Beg  beamed  again  and,  turning, 
went  into  the  house  with  the  bottle  and  the  spoon.  A 
few  minutes  later  there  was  a  great  commotion  among 
the  hitherto  motionless  hens,  and  they  were  all  running 
towards  a  point  at  the  back  of  the  house,  their  wings 
helping  them ;  running  as  if  their  lives  depended  upon 
it.  Joe  smiled  quietly.  It  was  only  Clanky,  he  knew. 
Clanky  seemed  to  fascinate  the  hens,  and  they  sur 
rounded  him  while  he  was  at  his  work,  whatever  that 
work  was.  No  doubt  they  would  surround  him  as  he 
"fixed "  the  wheels, cocking  their  heads  to  this  side  and 
to  that,  and  stepping  daintily,  with  a  comical  effect  of 
curiosity  and  without  a  shadow  of  fear. 

Clanky  did  his  work  in  the  henhouse  quickly,  shut 
the  door,  leaned  his  shovel  against  the  shed,  and  car 
ried  into  the  house  the  solitary  egg  that  he  had  found. 
Then  he  put  away  the  shovel  and  got  the  axe.  There 
was  already  a  goodly  lot  of  split  wood  piled  near  the 
chopping-block,  and  a  small  heap  of  wood  that  was 
sawed  but  not  split. 

"Ho!"  said  Clanky,  as  he  contemplated  this  heap. 
"Must  cut  some  more  wood  for  mother  Loughery, 
Clanky  must."  The  hens  were  gathering  about  him, 
as  was  their  habit.  "Hi!  You  yeller  rooster,  Absalom, 
don't  you  come  too  near,  or  you'll  get  hurt.  Shoo!" 

With  frequent  shooing  of  the  hens,  he  began  the 
76 


OLD  HARBOR 


splitting  of  the  wood.  He  was  not  quite  through  when 
he  heard  a  voice  give  brief  greeting  —  not  too  affec 
tionate  greeting  —  to  Joe. 

He  paused  in  his  work  and  his  face  darkened. 
"Mike!"  he  muttered.  Then  the  house  door  opened 
and  shut  again. 

"H'm,"  said  Clanky  to  himself.  "Guess  Clanky  'd 
better  do  his  work  in  the  house."  He  struck  the  axe 
deep  into  the  chopping-block  and  went  in. 

He  found  Mike  in  the  kitchen,  beginning  what 
seemed  to  be  a  search  among  the  crocks  and  cups  on 
the  closet  shelves.  He  looked  up  from  his  search  with 
an  expression  of  impatience  as  Clanky  entered.  He 
did  not  take  the  trouble  to  change  that  expression. 

"Hello,  Clanky!"  he  said,  with  unnecessary  loud- 
ness.  "Thought  you  were  chopping  wood.  Got  it  all 
done,  so  soon?" 

"No,"  replied  Clanky. 

"Well,  then,"  Mike  continued,  "you'd  better  keep  at 
it  till  you  have.  Go  chop  wood,  there's  a  good  boy." 

"There's  something  to  do  in  here,"  said  Clanky. 
"Clanky  has  to  do  it."  He  said  no  more,  but  he 
looked  at  Mike. 

Most  people  would  have  thought  Mike  was  very  good 
to  look  at:  tall,  broad  of  shoulder  and  long  and  strong 
of  limb,  with  a  dark,  handsome  face,  and  black  eyes 
that  could  be  very  frank  and  pleasant  when  Mike 
wished.  But  Clanky  was  not  one  of  those  who  found 
Mike  good  to  look  at.  He  had  taken  a  dislike  to  Mike 

77 


OLD  HARBOR 


from  the  first,  it  is  hard  to  say  why ;  perhaps  only  an 
instinctive  dislike,  such  as  a  dog  or  a  child  will  de 
velop,  instantly,  for  some  people ;  a  feeling  more  to  be 
trusted  than  one  that  is  based  upon  a  more  mature 
judgment. 

Mike  looked  into  Clanky's  unwavering  eyes  and,  as 
he  looked,  he  seemed  to  change  his  purpose.  For  his 
eyes  gradually  took  on  that  frank  and  pleasant  and 
friendly  look  that  he  knew  so  well  how  to  assume. 
The  angry  reply  died  on  his  lips.  He  smiled  ingrati 
atingly. 

"I'll  tell  you  a  secret,  Clanky." 

Clanky  drew  back.  He  wanted  to  share  no  secrets 
with  Mike. 

Mike  saw  the  involuntary  movement  and  his  face 
darkened ;  but  only  for  the  briefest  instant.  Then  the 
smile  was  in  his  eyes  again.  It  had  not  left  his  lips. 

"I  '11  tell  you  a  secret,"  he  repeated.  "I've  had  a 
stroke  of  luck,  Clanky,  and  I've  got  some  money  here 
—  five  dollars."  He  patted  his  pocket.  "I  want  to  sur 
prise  mother  —  put  it  with  her  savings,  you  know." 

Clanky  was  almost  convinced,  and  he  reproached 
himself  for  his  ill  opinion  of  Mike.  He  smiled  doubt 
fully  and  nodded.  Mike  went  on. 

"You  tell  me  where  she  keeps  'em,"  he  said,  in  an 
eager  whisper.  "My!  Won't  she  be  surprised  to  find 
it  ?  Just  think !  Five  dollars  extra ! " 

She  would  be  surprised,  undoubtedly.  Mike  found 
it  interesting  to  watch  the  conflicting  emotions  chase 

78 


OLD  HARBOR 


each  other  over  Clanky's  face,  which  was  like  an  open 
book  to  him.  Indeed,  he  found  it  easier  to  read  than 
most  books.  Clanky  did  not  answer. 

"Say,  Clanky,  where  is  it,  now?"  he  asked  again. 
"Five  dollars,  Clanky!" 

"  She  never  told  me,  mother  Loughery  did  n't," 
said  Clanky,  at  last.  "You  give  it  to  me,  Mike,  and 
I'll  manage  to  put  it  with  the  rest." 

Mike  smiled  a  slow  smile  which  grew  into  a  low 
laugh.  "Oh,  no,  Clanky.  Oh,  no.  I  don't  give  it  to 
you."  He  saw  the  look  of  indignation  growing  in 
Clanky's  face,  and  he  realized  what  caused  it.  "It's 
only  because  I'm  afraid  you  might  have  to  tell  her. 
Of  course,  I  know  you'd  mean  to  do  it.  But  I  want  to 
surprise  her.  Honest,  I  will,  Clanky.  Don't  you  know 
where  it  is?" 

Clanky  dimly  realized  that  Mike  could  hardly  have 
chosen  a  way  that  was  more  likely  to  surprise  his 
mother.  His  instinct  for  truth  was  great,  and  he  had 
been  asked  a  direct  question.  But  he  hesitated ;  he  hesi 
tated  so  long  that  Mike  was  considering  other  means 
of  getting  out  of  Clanky  the  knowledge  which  he  was 
sure  Clanky  had.  He  did  not  have  to  use  that  other 
method.  There  was  considerable  doubt  of  its  success, 
anyway. 

"You  promise  to  put  it  in,  too,  Mike,  —  the  five 
dollars?"  asked  Clanky,  at  last. 

"  Sure,  Clanky.  Honest,  I  will.  Do  you  know  where 
it  is?" 

79 


OLD   HARBOR 


"Yes,  Clanky  knows.  He  saw  mother  Loughery 
putting  money  in  it,  once." 

"Well,  where  is  it,  then  ?"  asked  Mike,  impatiently. 
This  idiot  was  a  long  time  in  telling  him,  and  time  was 
of  value  to  him,  just  then.  "Out  with  it,  Clanky." 

Clanky's  suspicions  were  stirring  again  at  Mike's 
impatience ;  but  not  enough.  He  stooped  and  fumbled 
in  the  corner  of  the  closet  and  brought  forth  a  porcelain 
jar  with  a  cover,  which  he  meant  to  hold  out  to  Mike. 
Mike  did  not  wait  for  him  to  rise,  much  less  for  him 
to  offer  the  jar,  but  almost  snatched  it.  Having  got 
it,  he  turned  his  back  to  Clanky. 

Clanky  stood  and  regarded  him  doubtfully.  "  You 
putting  the  money  in,  Mike  ?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  sure,"  answered  Mike,  cheerfully,  removing 
what  was  in  the  jar  as  he  spoke.  There  was  more  than 
he  had  expected,  and  he  was  correspondingly  pleased. 
His  hand  went  to  his  pocket.  "See,  I'm  getting  the 
money  now."  He  was ;  and,  tickled  by  his  own  joke, 
Mike  laughed. 

It  was  the  wrong  thing  to  do,  and  Mike  was  not  apt 
to  do  the  wrong  thing  in  such  cases.  He  had  only  taken 
Clanky  for  more  of  a  fool  than  he  was,  that  was  all. 
Clanky,  his  freshly  aroused  suspicions  almost  turned 
to  a  certainty,  became  aggressive. 

"You  let  me  see  it,  Mike,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
that  Mike  was  unaccustomed  to  hear  from  Clanky 
Beg.  "  Show  it  to  me.  I  don't  believe  you  've  put 
it  in." 

80 


OLD  HARBOR 


Mike  turned  and  tossed  him  the  jar.  "Take  it, 
fool,"  said  he. 

Clanky  was  not  expecting  that,  and  the  jar  crashed 
to  the  floor,  breaking  in  pieces.  Nothing  came  out. 
Mike  laughed  again,  but  not  for  long.  Clanky's  face 
was  convulsed  with  rage. 

"Thief!"  he  cried.  "Stealer  of  money!   I  kill  you." 

He  sprang,  throwing  one  long  and  powerful  arm  about 
Mike's  body  and,  with  his  other  hand,  feeling  for  his 
throat.  Both  of  Mike's  arms  were  pinioned  to  his  body 
just  above  the  elbows,  and  Mike  struggled  desperately 
to  free  them  and  to  keep  that  searching  hand  from  his 
throat.  But  he  could  not  free  his  arms,  struggle  as 
he  would.  Mike  was  afraid;  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  he  was  afraid  of  the  fool. 

The  struggle  was  a  silent  one,  except  for  Mike's 
muttered  curses  upon  Clanky.  Clanky  was  smiling. 

"  Going  to  kill  Mike,"  he  remarked  pleasantly,  "  be 
cause  he  steals  mother  Loughery's  money." 

Mike  replied  only  with  fresh  curses,  and  thereafter 
they  fought  silently  like  two  wolves.  The  two  writh 
ing  figures  were  all  over  the  kitchen,  but  there  was  no 
sound  but  Mike's  labored  breathing  and  the  dull  shuf 
fling  of  their  feet.  Suddenly  Mike  bethought  him  of 
Clanky's  weakness,  and  Clanky  felt  his  legs  give  way 
beneath  him;  but  he  only  clung  the  faster  to  Mike's 
body.  Mike  had  gained  nothing;  he  had  lost,  rather, 
for  he  had  the  two  of  them  to  hold  up  now,  and  Clanky's 
hand  was  finding  his  throat.  Clanky  was  still  smiling. 

81 


OLD  HARBOR 


The  end  was  certain.  Mike  knew  it  well ;  and,  knowing, 
he  felt  a  dull,  unreasoning  terror  overpowering  him. 
He  managed  to  make  some  sort  of  hoarse  noise  in  his 
throat.  It  was  a  feeble  sound,  and  could  scarcely  have 
been  heard  outside  the  walls  of  that  room.  No  doubt 
Joe,  if  he  heard  at  all,  would  think  it  of  no  moment. 
Of  no  moment!  It  meant  his  life  to  him.  As  he  still 
struggled  desperately,  but  ever  more  weakly,  he  heard 
a  clear  old  voice  from  the  doorway. 

"Boys,  boys!"  said  that  indignant  voice.  "What's 
this  all  about  ?  " 

At  the  sound  of  the  voice,  Clanky's  arms  dropped 
from  Mike's  body.  As  for  Mike,  he  never  in  his  life 
was  so  glad  to  hear  that  voice;  that  voice  that  had 
soothed  him  through  his  babyhood;  that  had  spoken 
never  a  cross  word  to  him  all  his  life  long,  until  long 
after  he  had  deserved  it.  He  tried  to  speak,  and  if  he 
could  not,  it  was  not  emotion  that  prevented  him. 
Mrs.  Loughery  turned  to  Clanky,  who  seemed  ashamed. 

"Well? "she  asked. 

Clanky  pointed  to  the  pieces  of  the  porcelain  jar  at 
her  feet.  The  words  came  so  fast  that  they  choked 
him.  "Mother  Loughery,"  he  said,  "the  jar  —  Mike 
—  would  —  he  broke  — 

Mike  found  his  voice,  at  that,  and  in  a  hurry.  "  Clanky 
was  stealing,  mother,"  he  said  thickly,  "and  I  caught 
him  at  it.  Then  he  throttled  me." 

The  utter  astonishment  on  Clanky's  face  was  some 
thing  to  see ;  so  was  the  growing  rage.  Mike  noted  it, 

82 


OLD  HARBOR 


and  edged  towards  the  door.  Clanky  could  not  speak, 
but  he  started  from  his  apathy  and  moved  slowly 
towards  Mike.  Mike  noted  that,  too. 

"I'll  fix  you  yet,  Clanky,  you  fool,"  he  muttered. 
And  Mike  was  gone. 

"  Stop  him !  He 's  got  it !  He 's  got  it ! "  cried  Clanky ; 
and  started  after  him. 

Mike  had  no  notion  of  being  stopped  and,  in  spite 
of  the  difficulty  he  had  in  breathing,  he  easily  left 
Clanky  behind ;  Clanky,  with  his  poor  wobbly  legs,  and 
Mike,  with  his  that  were  strong  and  well  made,  and  that 
should  have  been  put  to  a  better  use.  Clanky  gave 
up  the  pursuit  before  he  had  gone  ten  yards.  He  went 
to  the  shed  and  threw  himself  down  on  some  straw 
in  the  corner  and  sobbed  as  though  his  heart  would 
break;  as  though  it  was  already  broken. 

Here  Mrs.  Loughery  found  him.  She  sat  down  be 
side  him  and  took  his  poor  misshapen  head  into  her 
lap. 

"There,  there,  dearie!  I  know  well  you  would  n't 
be  stealin'  from  me,  Clanky,  —  or  from  anybody. 
You  're  a  good  boy,  Clanky,  an'  it 's  all  right." 

"But,"  he  wailed,  "Mike's  got  your  money.  He's 
got  it  all.  He  promised  to  put  in  five  dollars,  an'  so" 
—  here  the  sobs  broke  out  afresh  —  "  an'  so  I  gave  him 
the  jar.  An'  he  took  it  all,  he  did." 

"Now,  don't  you  grieve,  dearie.  Don't  you,  now. 
It's  small  matter  —  small  matter  —  the  money.  We'll 
make  some  more,  Clanky,  dear.  Did  you  think  I'd 

83 


OLD  HARBOR 


doubt  you  —  an'  I  bringin'  up  Mike  from  a  baby  ?  I 
know,  dear,  I  know  —  sorrow  to  me  —  I  done  my  best 
wi'  him.  God  knows  I  done  my  best.  Now  tell  me, 
Clanky,  what  have  you  an'  Joe  been  cookin'  up  be 
tween  you  the  morn  ?  What  've  you  been  doin'  to 
him  ?  I  've  not  seen  him  so  well  this  many  a  day." 

As  Mrs.  Loughery  listened  to  the  unfolding  of 
Clanky 's  vague  plans  and  hopes,  her  face  grew 
brighter. 

"  Bless  you,  Clanky,"  she  said,  when  he  had  finished. 
"  Bless  you  !  What 's  the  money  to  me  ?  If  Joe  can  be 
better!  You  go  on  wi'  'em." 


COLONEL  CATHERWOOD'S  business  was  what  Con 
stance  called  a  hand-me-down.  She  knew  that  it  had 
something  to  do  with  shipping,  and  that,  at  intervals, 
—  very  long  intervals,  sometimes,  —  one  of  his  coast 
ing  schooners  stopped  for  a  brief  visit;  and  she  knew 
that,  whenever  she  had  been  in  his  office,  he  had  ap 
peared  to  have  very  little  to  do.  In  fact,  he  was  very 
much  at  leisure ;  a  state  of  affairs  which,  it  is  to  be  sup 
posed,  suited  him  well  enough.  It  gave  him  time  for 
many  things :  for  rambling  about  the  wharves,  a  form 
of  entertainment  of  which  he  was  very  fond ;  for  much 
reading,  which  he  did  at  home,  for  the  most  part;  and, 
the  thing  for  which  he  valued  his  leisure  the  most,  it 
gave  him  time  to  devote  to  his  family.  He  might  very 
well,  one  would  have  thought,  give  up  a  business  that 
was  of  so  little  importance.  So  he  might,  —  he  never 
would  have  missed  the  little  that  it  added  to  his  income, 
—  but  it  was  a  matter  of  family  pride  that  it  should  be 
kept  up.  The  whole  history  of  the  aristocracy  of  Old 
Harbor  was  bound  up  in  its  shipping. 

It  was  hard  to  see  what  he  found  of  such  interest  in 
the  wharves,  that  he  was  so  willing  to  spend  his  time 
in  wandering  about  them.  They  were  tumble-down 
affairs,  most  of  them,  that  spoke  loudly  of  decay.  But 

85 


OLD  HARBOR 


he  seemed  to  love  them,  and  whenever  he  was  not  to  be 
found  in  his  office,  those  who  knew  him  well  would  be 
take  themselves  to  the  wharves.  There  they  would  be 
pretty  sure  to  find  him,  sitting  on  a  log  or  upon  the  top 
of  a  pile,  digging  with  his  stick  in  the  dust  of  years  at 
his  feet,  or  gazing  out  absently  over  the  pretty  little 
harbor  to  the  sea  beyond.  At  the  sound  of  footsteps, 
he  would  turn,  with  a  smile  that  was  ineffably  sweet, 
and  with  a  look  in  his  eyes  as  of  one  not  yet  awakened 
from  his  dreams.  "  Well  ?"  he  would  say  gently. 

Colonel  Catherwood's  great-grandfather  had  begun 
it,  —  the  shipping  business,  not  the  dreaming,  —  and 
had  done  well  at  it,  even  starting  a  shipyard,  in  a  small 
way,  near  at  hand;  had  done  so  well  that  the  great 
square  house,  in  which,  now,  five  generations  of  Cath- 
erwoods  had  lived,  was  built  as  a  visible  evidence  of 
his  success.  His  son  and  his  son's  son  had  carried  the 
business  on,  through  many  vicissitudes.  It  was  in  the 
time  of  Colonel  Catherwood's  father  that  it  reached  its 
greatest  prosperity.  There  were  many  ships,  then, 
built  at  his  own  shipyard,  and  the  wharves  were  busy. 
Then  came  the  Civil  War.  It  found  him  prepared ;  for 
he  had  sold  most  of  his  ships,  and  investment  in  gov 
ernment  bonds  had  been  regarded  as  patriotic  on  his 
part.  It  certainly  was  wise. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  Francis  Catherwood,  return 
ing  from  his  campaigns  full  of  honors,  found  himself 
not  too  heavily  burdened  with  a  business  which  made 
but  small  demands  upon  his  time  and  attention,  and 

86 


OLD  HARBOR 


with  an  income  that  was  ample.  He  was  thankful 
for  that,  very  thankful.  He  said  it  over  to  himself, 
now,  sitting  in  a  sunny  corner  of  the  old  wharf,  dig 
ging  with  his  stick  in  the  dust  of  years.  There  was  a 
sharpness  in  the  air  that  morning  and  the  sun  was 
grateful. 

He  heard  a  step  and  he  turned.  "Well,  Jack,"  he 
said,  smiling.  "  I  was  just  thinking  about  you  —  or 
about  your  ancestors.  I  should  have  got  to  you  in 
time." 

Jack  Catherwood  was  tall  and  broad-shouldered  and 
handsome ;  wonderfully  like  his  father  —  but  like  his 
mother,  too.  Indeed,  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Catherwood 
had  grown  to  look  wonderfully  like  each  other,  as 
seems  often  to  be  the  way  with  married  people  who 
are  not  only  happy,  but  serene.  I  do  not  pretend  to 
explain  it. 

Jack  smiled  and  seated  himself  beside  his  father. 
He  laid  his  hand,  with  a  little  gesture  of  affection,  on 
his  knee ;  but  only  for  an  instant.  "  I  knew  you  would 
be  here  to-day,  dad,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  take  the 
trouble  to  go  to  the  office." 

He  was  silent.  The  whole  atmosphere  of  the  place 
seemed  to  compel  it.  Two  men,  on  the  far  shore,  were 
getting  the  sail  up,  on  a  dory.  Near  the  edge  of  the 
channel,  half-a-dozen  more  dories  were  grouped,  and 
a  man  was  standing  in  each  one,  doing  something  with 
what  looked  like  an  immense  pair  of  shears,  holding 
a  handle  in  each  hand  and  working  them  gently  on  the 

87 


OLD   HARBOR 


bottom.  Now  and  then  the  shears  would  be  drawn  in 
and  laid  across  the  dory,  and  the  man  would  appear 
to  be  busy  examining  what  had  been  brought  up. 
Jack  watched  these  men  for  some  time. 

"Scalloping,"  he  remarked  finally. 

"  M-m,"  murmured  his  father.  Colonel  Catherwood 
was  not  looking  at  them ;  he  was  looking  at  two  vessels 
which  were  anchored  out  beyond.  There  was  no  sign 
of  life  on  them ;  they  seemed  as  if  they  might  have  been 
anchored  there  for  all  time ;  as  if  they  might  stay  there 
until  they  rotted. 

There  was  the  whistle  of  a  distant  train,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  it  rose  to  the  bridge  and  rumbled  across,  the 
rumble  sounding  faintly  and  not  disturbing  the  silence 
and  the  serenity.  It  was  almost  a  caress. 

Jack  roused  himself.  "Jove!"  he  said,  under  his 
breath.  "  This  gets  hold  of  you !" 

His  father  smiled  quietly.  "It  does,"  he  replied. 
"It  has  had  hold  of  me  these  twenty  years.  I  like  to 
think,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause,  "how  it  must  have 
looked  sixty  years  ago.  There  were  many  ships,  then. 
Why,  this  very  wharf  was  busy,  though  you  would  n't 
think  it  now.  The  office  was  not  the  —  not  the  place 
it  is."  He  sighed.  "  I  suppose  it  would  not  have  ap 
pealed  to  me  then  as  it  does  now.  There  must  have 
been  hurry  and  bustle;  less  of  this  serenity." 

Jack  gave  inarticulate  assent. 

"  You  know  there  are  still  two  of  the  old  ships  left," 
Colonel  Catherwood  continued.  "Your  grandfather 

88 


OLD  HARBOR 


could  n't  sell  them  —  or,  at  any  rate,  he  did  n't.  Pos 
sibly  a  touch  of  sentiment.  They  come  in  here  some 
times,  and  I  like  to  have  them.  There  is  one  of  them, 
now."  The  colonel  raised  his  stick  and  pointed  to  one 
of  the  two  vessels  lying  at  anchor.  "  I  keep  them  here 
until  everybody  is  impatient."  He  laughed  a  depre 
cating  laugh. 

Jack  smiled  understandingly.  "For  the  sake  of  the 
landscape?" 

"  For  the  sake  of  the  landscape.  They  make  a  good 
foreground,  lying  out  there." 

Again  Jack  was  silent.  "Dad,"  he  said,  at  last,  "I 
came  down  here  to  talk  things  over  with  you.  But 
I  —  this,"  waving  a  comprehensive  arm,  "  does  n't  lend 
itself  to  talk.  Come  into  the  office.  Do  you  mind  ?" 

"All  right,  Jackie."  Colonel  Catherwood  rose.  He 
took  Jack's  arm,  affectionately,  and  they  strode  off 
together;  two  fine  figures  of  men,  you  would  have 
thought,  if  you  had  seen  them.  It  was  but  a  few  steps, 
for  the  office  was  at  the  head  of  the  wharf. 

As  they  shut  the  door  of  the  office  behind  them, 
another  figure  rose  slowly  from  behind  a  pile  of  old 
boards,  sat  up  for  a  while,  and  looked  about  dully  and 
rubbed  its  bloodshot  eyes.  It  was  Mike  Loughery, 
who  seemed  to  have  inherited,  in  full  measure,  some 
of  his  father's  least  admirable  tastes,  and  who  seemed 
to  be  likely  to  make  a  less  picturesque  end  than  he. 
Having  sat  up  and  rubbed  some  of  the  sleep  out  of 
his  eyes,  and  having  sat  thus  for  some  while  gazing  at 

89 


OLD  HARBOR 


nothing  in  particular,  until,  you  would  have  thought, 
he  must  have  taken  in  every  detail  of  what  he  was 
gazing  at,  Mike  rose  to  his  feet,  stretched  himself, 
looked  cunningly  at  the  closed  door  of  the  office  within 
which  Colonel  Catherwood  and  Jack  had  disappeared, 
muttered  something,  and  turned  again  to  the  harbor. 
He  looked  long  at  the  ship,  lying  there  with  no  life 
about  her,  as  far  as  could  be  seen ;  then  made  his  way, 
cautiously,  to  the  edge  of  the  wharf  which  could  not  be 
seen  from  the  office  windows,  —  supposing  that  any 
body  was  watching,  —  and  lowered  himself  over  the 
string-piece.  He  did  not  intend  to  commit  suicide, 
more 's  the  pity.  He  swung  himself  in  to  a  stringer  that 
ran  from  pile  to  pile,  caught  it  with  his  feet,  and,  at 
precisely  the  right  moment,  let  go  his  hand-hold  and 
took  another.  It  was  a  perilous  thing  to  do,  for  the 
stringer  was  covered,  top,  sides,  and  bottom,  with  wav 
ing  green  weed ;  but  it  was  no  new  thing  to  Mike.  He 
had  done  the  same  thing  successfully  many  times  be 
fore,  and  he  did  not  fail  now.  Under  the  wharf  lay 
an  old  dory  with  the  oars  in  her.  Mike  got  into  the  boat, 
carefully,  and,  still  carefully,  poked  her  out  at  the  end 
of  the  wharf  and  rowed  away. 

Colonel  Catherwood  and  Jack  sat  in  the  office,  talk 
ing  in  low  tones,  while  the  old  clerk  puttered  about  the 
books.  They  paid  little  attention  to  the  clerk,  beyond 
Jack's  pleasant  greeting  to  him  when  they  came  in. 
He  was  as  deaf  as  a  post,  anyway,  and  had  long  given 
up  all  expectation  of  hearing  anything  at  all,  whether 

90 


OLD  HARBOR 


it  was  meant  for  him  or  not.  Jack  was  telling  his  father 
something  of  his  impressions  of  England. 

Colonel  Catherwood  sat  silent.  He  was  leaning  back 
in  his  chair,  his  feet  crossed  like  a  crusader's,  his  elbows 
propped  on  the  arms  of  the  old  chair,  and  the  tips  of 
his  fingers  together.  His  eyes,  fixed  on  the  far  shore, — 
or  farther  yet,  —  had  the  look  of  one  who  did  not  hear. 
Jack  grew  impatient. 

"Well,  dad?"  he  said,  at  last. 

His  father  turned  to  him,  and  again  he  smiled  his 
sweet  smile.  "Excuse  me,  Jack,"  he  said.  "I  heard 
you.  I  was  attending.  What  you  said  reminded 
me  of  my  own  impressions.  They  were  much  like 
yours  —  much  like  yours.  You  say  nothing  about 
the  larger  matter.  Did  n't  you  get  impressions  of  — 
of  life?  I  hardly  know  how  else  to  express  what  I 
mean.  Did  n't  it  help  you  to  decide  what  you  wanted 
to  do?" 

Jack  hesitated,  tilting  his  chair  back  and  forth.  "  It 
may  have  helped  me,"  he  said.  "I  think  it  did.  But 
it  was  n't  an  enabling  act."  He  laughed,  in  embarrass 
ment.  "The  truth  is,  dad,  I  don't  know,  yet,  what  I 
want.  Until  I  make  up  my  mind,  I  want  to  come  into 
the  office." 

"The  office,"  replied  Colonel  Catherwood,  slowly, 
"hardly  furnishes  occupation  enough  to  keep  another 
busy.  But  it  will  serve  as  well  as  another  thing,  and 
give  you  time.  Failing  anything  better,  the  business 
is  highly  respectable,  —  oh,  highly,  —  and  it  has  been 

91 


OLD  HARBOR 


in  the  family  a  long  time.  I  should  be  sorry  to  think 
you  would  be  contented  with  it." 

Jack  would  have  protested ;  but  Colonel  Catherwood 
went  on. 

"  I  don't  want  to  hurry  you,  Jackie,"  he  said.  "  There 
is  no  need  of  it,  and  I  believe  it  would  be  the  worst 
thing  in  the  world  for  you.  As  far  as  need  is  concerned, 
there  is  no  real  need  of  your  doing  anything.  But  I 
should  be  sorrier  still,  to  think  you  would  be  contented 
with  that.  Your  mother  and  I,  Jackie,  expect  a  good 
deal  of  you  —  very  possibly  too  much ;  but  we  shall  not 
be  disappointed  if  you  make  an  honest  effort  which 
does  not  result  in  a  glittering  success.  By  success,  I 
don't  mean  making  a  lot  of  money." 

Again  Jack  murmured  something  in  the  nature  of 
a  disclaimer;  but  he  looked  pleased. 

"  I  have  known  too  many  instances,"  continued 
Colonel  Catherwood,  "in  which  men  have  had  to 
take  up  anything  that  they  could  do  —  or  that  they 
could  n't  —  without  regard  to  their  natural  bent.  It  is 
the  usual  way.  Sometimes  they  find  out,  late  in  life, 
what  they  might  have  done,  often  surpassingly  well,  and 
it  is  too  late,  or  their  business  will  not  let  them,  or  they 
cannot  take  the  time  for  that  apprenticeship  which  is 
needed.  Why,"  —  he  lowered  his  voice,  as  if  there 
were  any  one  to  hear,  —  "  there  is  William  Ransome. 
He  makes  a  good,  honest,  steady-going  bank  clerk  — 
officer,  they  call  him.  He  is  nothing  but  a  clerk.  I  think 
that  he  has  —  or  had  it  in  him  to  do  better  things.  He 

92 


OLD   HARBOR 


writes,  you  know,  for  his  own  amusement.  If  he  had 
begun  soon  enough,  there  is  no  knowing  where  he 
might  have  got.  For  he  writes  very  well,  if  I  am  any 
judge.  I  don't  want  you  to  make  that  mistake.  You 
do  not  have  to,  as  he  did." 

For  some  reason,  Jack  had  grown  very  red.  "  Thank 
you,  dad,"  he  said ;  "I  —  I  saw  "  —  But  he  concluded 
not  to  say  it.  "  I  will  try  not  to  make  that  mistake.  If 
there  is  anything  that  I  have  a  natural  inclination  for, 
I  ought  to  find  it  pretty  soon.  Then  I  may  consider  it 
settled  —  that  I  come  into  the  office  with  you  for  the 
present?" 

Colonel  Catherwood  nodded.  Jack  was  looking  out 
at  the  harbor.  Suddenly  he  saw  a  dory  rowed  swiftly 

—  for  a  dory  —  past  the  end  of  the  wharf  and  past 
the  empty  dock  before  them. 

"  Who  is  that  man  —  in  the  dory  ?  "  he  asked  quickly. 
"Is  n't  it  Mike  Loughery  ?" 

The  colonel  had  seen.  "  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  Mike 's 
a  bad  lot,  I  'm  afraid.  I  'm  sorry  for  his  mother.  Joe  's 
got  consumption.  I'm  afraid  he  won't  last  this  winter 
out.  I  would  offer  him  a  passage  in  the  ship  out  there, 

—  she  takes  a  cargo  for  Rio  next  week,  —  but  it 's  too 
late.   I  blame  myself  for  not  thinking  of  it  in  time  to 
do  some  good.  Poor  Mrs.  Loughery !  She 's  had  a  hard 
life  of  it."    Strangely  enough,  he  smiled.    You  would 
not  have  thought  it  of  him.    "I  was  thinking  of  the 
late  Michael,"  he  said,  as  if  apologizing  for  his  smile. 
"He  was  a  case." 

93 


OLD   HARBOR 


Jack  smiled  back  at  him  sympathetically,  but  said 
nothing  for  some  minutes. 

"Dad,"  he  said  then,  instinctively  lowering  his 
voice,  "  how  is  Uncle  Eben  getting  on  ?  Is  it  true,  as 
MacLean  says  — 

"Probably  not,"  his  father  interrupted.  "I  beg 
your  pardon  for  interrupting  you.  I  don't  know,  of 
course,  what  MacLean  says,  but  it  is  probably  a  gar 
bled  version  of  current  gossip.  I  wish  that  MacLean 
would  learn  to  mind  his  own  business." 

"He  can't,"  said  Jack;  "and  he  can't  learn  to.  It 
is  too  much  to  expect  of  him.  Besides,  his  own  busi 
ness  would  not  give  him  enough  to  occupy  his  mind. 
He  says,  in  effect,  that  Uncle  Eben  is  a  hopeless 
wreck." 

"  No.  No,"  replied  the  colonel,  slowly,  carefully  con 
sidering  his  words.  "That  is  not  true.  Your  uncle 
Eben  wras  in  bad  shape  when  he  came,  but  Harriet  has 
nursed  him  back  again  —  Harriet  and  Doctor  Olcott. 
He  is  not  a  wreck,  and  I  see  no  reason  why  he  need  to 
be  hopeless."  He  paused  for  a  moment.  "Your  aunt 
Harriet,"  he  continued  deliberately,  "  is  a  good  deal  of 
a  woman,  Jack,  in  spite  of  certain  —  er  —  sharpnesses 
—  which  she  can't  help.  They  seem  to  come  as  natural 
to  her  as  breathing,"  he  added. 

Jack  laughed.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "I  know.  But  she  is 
never  sharp  with  me." 

"  She  is  very  fond  of  you,  boy,"  his  father  returned. 
"I  don't  know  why  she  should  be.  I  can't  imagine. 

94 


OLD   HARBOR 


But  she  is.  Why  don't  you  drop  in  there  this  morning  ? 
You  may  see  Eben,  perhaps." 

"I  will,  "said  Jack.  "I '11  go  now.  He  rose.  "Well, 
dad,  I'll  be  down  in  the  morning  for  work." 

"Hope  you  find  it,"  said  his  father,  smiling.  "But 
come  along."  Then,  as  the  door  closed  behind  Jack, 
his  expression  changed.  "I  must  get  a  keeper  for  that 
ship,"  he  muttered. 

He  rose  and  went  over  to  the  old  clerk,  who  looked 
up  expectantly.  "  Get  a  keeper  for  the  '  Susan,'  Hey- 
wood,"  he  shouted. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  clerk,  in  a  gentle  voice,  the  voice 
of  the  very  deaf;  "I  think  we'd  better." 

The  colonel  returned  to  the  contemplation  of  the 
harbor ;  looking  out  over  it  without  seeing  it  —  but 
feeling  it,  perhaps;  yes,  without  doubt,  feeling  its  in 
fluence,  as  he  had  felt  it  all  his  life  —  and  dreaming  his 
dreams.  They  were  dreams  of  the  past,  as  he  liked  to 
imagine  it,  and  of  the  future,  also  as  he  liked  to  imagine 
it  —  vaguely.  It  was  Jack's  future,  for  the  most  part. 
He,  Francis  Catherwood,  had  no  future  to  speak  of. 
For  he  had  included  himself  among  those  who  had  been 
compelled  by  circumstances  to  take  up  anything  they 
could  do,  and  who  were  finding  out,  late  in  life,  what 
they  might  have  done.  Jack  had  not  suspected  it.  Al 
though  he  was  not  old,  and  although  his  business  was 
not  exacting,  and  although  he  could  well  enough  afford 
two  or  three  years  of  apprenticeship,  he  knew  that  he 
should  not  do  it.  He  had  not  the  energy,  he  supposed. 

95 


OLD   HARBOR 


He  had  passed  that  point.  He  acknowledged  it  to 
himself,  and  was  ashamed  and  sighed  deeply.  It  was 
humiliating.  He  wished  —  but  wishes  are  not  horses. 
At  all  events,  Jack  should  not  be  compelled  by  circum 
stances. 


CHAPTER  IX 

NAN  HEDGE  was  driving  about  town  in  a  village  cart. 
How  it  happened  that  she  was  away  down  there  among 
the  wharves,  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  she,  too,  liked  the 
view  of  the  harbor;  perhaps  she,  too,  got  to  dreaming 
and  the  horse  wandered  down  there  of  his  own  accord. 
He  was  much  more  likely  to  wander  toward  his  own 
stable,  one  would  have  thought;  but  he  was  Nan's 
horse,  and  it  is  to  be  supposed  that  he  knew  Nancy, 
and  that  he  knew  that  it  was  not  well  to  wander  home 
before  Nan  expressed  a  wish  to  go  there.  A  horse  can 
not  tell  what  he  knows.  That  is  unfortunate,  perhaps, 
but  it  is  so.  Again,  Nan  may  have  been  petulant  and 
out  of  sorts,  —  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  Nan  was  often 
petulant  and  out  of  sorts,  —  and,  being  in  that  unhappy 
condition,  may  have  got  it  into  her  head  that  the 
wharves  were  a  place  where  she  had  no  business  to  be. 
Ergo,  she  was  there.  Q.  E.  D.  There  was  another 
reason  which  certain  ill-natured  persons,  who  disliked 
Nancy  Hedge,  might  have  given  for  her  presence  there 
at  that  time;  but  we,  who  are  never  ill-natured,  will 
not  cast  suspicion  on  her  motives  by  giving  that  rea 
son. 

It  happened  that  Jack  Catherwood,  coming  out  of 
his  father's  office,  saw  Nan  Hedge  the  very  first  thing. 

97 


OLD  HARBOR 


Strangely  enough,  she  did  n't  seem  to  see  him  until  she 
had  turned  around  and  drawn  up  by  the  curb.  Turn 
ing  around  took  all  Nan's  attention  —  sometimes,  and 
she  needed  the  width  of  the  street  —  sometimes.  Then 
she  glanced  up  quite  casually  and,  naturally,  she  saw 
him,  he  being  hardly  six  feet  away  at  the  time  and 
being  quite  visible. 

He  smiled,  thinking — but  I  do  not  know  what  he 
thought.  At  all  events,  he  smiled  and  raised  his  hat 
and  would  have  passed  on. 

She  would  not  have  it  so.  "Good-morning,  Mr. 
Catherwood,"  she  said,  in  a  sweet  voice.  Nan  could 
speak  very  sweetly,  on  occasion.  She  leaned  out  of  her 
cart  and  smiled  at  him.  He  came  alongside  the  cart, 
perforce,  and  anchored  there. 

"Good-morning,"  he  said.  "Have  you  come  down 
here  to  see  the  harbor  —  to  get  a  near  view?" 

When  she  saw  that  he  was  well  anchored,  she  smiled 
again,  and  spoke  as  if  what  she  was  saying  was  of  the 
greatest  importance. 

"So  you  have  been  getting  this  view"  —  she  waved 
her  whip  gently  toward  the  harbor  —  "  from  the  win 
dows  of  your  father's  office.  I  think  it  is  lovely,  per 
fectly  lovely  to-day.  How  your  father  must  enjoy  it, 
having  his  office  so  near!" 

Jack  laughed.  "Yes,"  he  answered,  "father  enjoys 
having  his  office  handy.  He  might  find  it  inconvenient 
if  it  was  far  away.  Father  thinks  this  is  lovely  any  day. 
They  would  have  to  call  him,  you  know,  if  any  impor- 

98 


OLD  HARBOR 


tant  business  came  up  that  needed  his  attention,  —  it  is 
so  likely  to,  — and  Hey  wood  would  have  to  have  a  boy 
for  that.  He  could  n't  put  his  head  out  of  the  window 
and  speak  in  his  gentle  voice;  not  with  any  prospect 
of  being  heard,  he  could  n't.  That's  all  he  has  to  do 
now." 

Nan  laughed  gayly.  Not  that  she  understood,  in  the 
least,  what  he  was  driving  at,  but  it  would  never  do 
to  let  him  suspect  it.  "Who  is  Heywood?"  she  asked. 

"  Our  old  clerk,"  he  answered.  "  He  is  very  deaf, 
and  he  speaks  in  a  low  and  gentle  voice  in  consequence 
—  an  admirable  voice  for  turning  away  wrath." 

"  The  poor  man ! "  said  Nan,  her  low  tones  filled  with 
compassion. 

"The  poor  man!"  echoed  Jack.  "But  I  don't  sup 
pose  he  would  want  our  pity.  He  would  probably  smile 
at  it  —  at  the  idea  of  our  thinking  that  he  needed  it." 
He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  looking  at  the  piece  of 
harbor  that  was  visible  through  the  end  of  the  narrow 
street.  Then  he  looked  up  at  Nan  and  smiled.  "It  is 
a  pity,"  he  said. 

Nan  found  this  sort  of  thing  very  pleasant,  and  she 
smiled  back  at  him.  "What  is  a  pity?"  she  asked 
softly.  "Hey wood's  deafness?" 

"No  doubt  it  is,"  said  Jack,  "although  that  was  not 
what  I  meant.  Heywood  probab]y  has  compensations." 

"What,  then?"  asked  Nan  again. 

"Why,"  said  Jack,  "I  meant  tliat  it  was  a  pity  that 
you  should  have  your  horse  with  you.  The  view  from 

99 


OLD  HARBOR 


the  wharf  is  much  better.  I  'm  afraid,"  he  added  hastily, 
seeing  symptoms  of  speech  in  Nan,  "that  it  would 
not  be  safe  to  drive  on  it.  The  wharf  is  very  old  and 
has  not  been  kept  in  repair."  For  he  reflected  that  his 
father  had  his  eye  on  that  wharf  —  a  comprehensive  eye, 
a  twinkling  eye.  If  he  went  on  the  wharf  with  Nan 
Hedge  —  as  he  would  have  to  — 

Nan  laughed  again.  The  horse  would  stand  well 
enough.  They  both  knew  that,  and  both  knew  that 
both  knew.  But  Nan  wore  very  high-heeled  shoes  and 
was  —  well,  why  mince  matters  ?  —  she  was  awk 
ward  and  ungainly  on  her  own  feet.  To  be  sure,  Jack 
did  not  know  it,  yet,  but  Nan  did,  although  she  was 
not  accustomed  to  put  it  that  way.  She  rarely  trusted 
herself  upon  those  members  —  never,  if  she  could  help 
it ;  and  why  begin  now  ?  In  a  chair,  a  well-upholstered 
chair,  reclining  gracefully,  —  not  lolling,  —  she  did  very 
well ;  or  in  any  sort  of  a  trap,  especially  if  she  was  driv 
ing,  she  cut  an  attractive  figure,  a  stylish  figure.  She 
knew  her  good  points,  did  Nan,  and  she  made  the  most 
of  them.  So  she  laughed.  Jack  Catherwood  was  so 
transparent. 

"I'm  afraid  we  shall  have  to  postpone  the  wharf, 
then,"  she  said,  in  her  melodious  voice.  "If  you  are 
going  up  the  street,  —  as  I  suppose  you  are, —  won't 
you  let  me  take  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  thank  you."  Jack  got  in  beside  Nan  with  what 
grace  he  could.  He  did  not  like  village  carts.  He  did 
not  altogether  like  the  idea  of  being  taken  up  the  street 

100 


OLD  HARBOR 


by  Nancy  Hedge,  either.  It  was  too  —  too  conspicu 
ous.  Suppose  MacLean  should  be  looking  out  at  the 
door  of  his  shop. 

Nancy  Hedge  was  an  enterprising  young  person, 
possibly  a  year  older  than  Jack  Catherwood ;  possibly 
more.    Who  can  judge  a  woman's  age?    She  did  not 
look  as  old  as  he,  this  morning,  with  her  brown  veil 
carefully  disposed  over  her  smart  hat  so  that  the  smart 
ness  of  the  hat  was  not  concealed  from  the  eye  of 
the  curious ;  and  the  veil  itself  was  of  just  the  fineness 
of  mesh  calculated  —  carefully  calculated  —  to  con 
ceal  any  traces  of  age  that  there  might  be  behind  it. 
Those  ill-natured  persons  that  I  have  mentioned  would 
have  said  that  it  was  calculated  to  conceal,  also,  any 
traces  of  paint  and  powder  that  Nan  might  have  found 
it  wise  to  apply.  But  I  —  I  am  not  an  ill-natured  per 
son  —  I  do  not  believe  that  Nan  had  yet  found  it  wise 
to  apply  any  paint,  although  I  am  bound  to  confess 
that  she  would  not  have  hesitated  for  a  moment,  if  she 
thought  it  was  needed.   And  I  am  convinced  that  she 
used   powder  only   in   moderation  —  and  with  great 
skill ;  she  or  her  maid  —  for  Nan  had  a  maid.  So  I  am 
forced  to  the  conclusion  that  Nan  did  not  need  the  veil, 
whose  mesh  was  so  carefully  chosen,  at  any  rate  for 
the  purpose  for  which  the  aforesaid  ill-natured  persons 
averred  that  it  was.  But  a  veil  is  a  harmless  thing  and, 
as  Nan  would  have  said,  it  is  necessary  to  keep  off  the 
dust  when  one  is  driving.   As  for  traces  of  age  in  her 
face,  why  that  seems  absurd.  There  were  no  traces  of 

101 


OLD  HARBOR 


age  in  her  face.  Jack,  who  had  heard  some  of  the  re 
ports  about  the  matter,  looked  very  carefully,  and  he 
could  not  see  any.  Nancy,  quite  unconsciously  of 
course,  let  him  look  as  long  as  he  cared  to,  and  held 
her  chin  up  and  only  quivered  an  eyelash  occasionally. 
They  were  very  long  and  beautiful  eyelashes,  and  Nan 
gave  them  every  care;  she  positively  cherished  them. 

Nancy  Hedge  had  lately  arrived  in  Old  Harbor,  and 
an  arrival  —  of  anybody  —  was  unusual  enough  to 
attract  a  good  deal  of  attention.  Naturally,  the  arrival 
of  Nan  completely  absorbed  the  attention  of  the  inhab 
itants  of  Old  Harbor  for  some  time.  This  attention  had 
reached  the  flood  while  Jack  was  in  England,  and  was 
just  beginning  to  ebb  when  he  returned.  Considering 
Nan  herself,  —  and  Old  Harbor  itself,  —  it  was  not  to 
be  expected  that  attention  would  be  entirely  withdrawn 
from  her,  or  even  reach  the  normal  proportions  due 
a  mere  inhabitant,  for  —  oh,  a  long  time. 

Jack,  casting  a  nervous  eye  in  the  direction  of 
MacLean's  shop,  noted  MacLean  standing  at  the 
door,  his  nose  frankly  flattened  against  the  glass  and 
an  expression  of  joy  beginning  to  irradiate  his  features. 
Jack,  at  the  time,  was  in  the  middle  of  a  remark  of 
the  edifying  sort  already  reported ;  but  he  forgot  what 
he  was  saying  and  became  completely  muddled. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Nan,  looking  around 
at  him.  Looking  around,  she  caught  sight  of  MacLean 
at  his  door.  His  expression  of  entire  joy  was  now  com 
plete.  "  Oh,"  said  Nan,  "  is  it  the  apothecary  ?  He  is 

102 


OLD  HARBOR 


amusing,  is  n't  he  ?  "   Her  tones  were  cold  and  imper 
sonal,  as  if  Mac  Lean  were  a  mile-post  or  a  snow-man 
—  perhaps  she  might  have  spoken  more  warmly  of  a 
snow-man;  and  she  laughed  lightly. 

Jack  had  recovered  himself  by  this  time.  "In  this 
case,"  he  answered,  "  MacLean  is  being  amused  — 
apparently,  very  much  amused.  I  wonder  what  at." 

"Why,"  said  Nan,  laughing  again,  lightly,  "at  see 
ing  you  driving  with  me,  of  course.  He  is  likely  to  be 
amused  quite  often.  You  don't  mind,  do  you?" 

Whereat  Jack  protested  warmly,  which,  it  is  to  be 
supposed,  was  just  what  Nan  wanted;  and  Nan  made 
some  reply,  it  does  not  matter  what. 

Nancy  Hedge,  as  I  have  remarked,  was  an  enter 
prising  young  woman,  and  bold  enough  to  make  a  dif 
ficulty  serve  her  turn.  She  did  not  believe  in  letting 
any  opportunities  slip  by  her,  whether  they  were  pro 
mising  or  not.  It  is  so  easy  to  drop  what  you  find  you 
do  not  want;  much  easier  than  to  miss  a  good  chance 
when  you  have  it.  So  it  had  happened  that  she  had 
been  waiting  at  the  station  when  Jack  arrived,  —  oh, 
quite  by  chance,  —  and  had  leaned  out  of  her  cart  to 
speak  to  Constance.  Constance,  to  avoid  an  awkward 
ness,  had  presented  Jack;  which  may  have  been  Nan's 
object  or  may  not. 

Nan's  father  had  bought  the  old  Tilton  place,  not 
very  far  from  the  Catherwoods'.  Indeed,  it  could  not 
be  very  far  from  the  Catherwoods'  and  still  be  in  the 
desirable  part  of  Old  Harbor  —  in  the  part  of  Old 

103 


OLD  HARBOR 


Harbor  that  would  have  appealed  to  the  Hedges ;  and 
that  is  as  much  as  to  say  to  Nan.  For  Nan's  mother 
was  dead,  and  there  was  now  another  Mrs.  Hedge,  with 
whom  Nan  found  herself  in  frequent  disagreement; 
which,  I  believe,  is  not  an  unusual  state  of  affairs,  and 
not  necessarily  discreditable  to  Nan,  or  to  the  second 
Mrs.  Hedge,  either.  So  Mr.  Hedge  had  come  down,  at 
Nan's  instance,  had  seen,  had  bought,  and  had  promptly 
gone  back  to  New  York  again.  The  old  Tilton  place 
was  the  old  Tilton  place  no  longer,  but  was  duly  re 
corded  with  the  Register  in  the  name  of  Nancy  Hedge. 
Jack  might  have  found  it  so  recorded,  if  he  had  but 
been  minded  to  look  it  up. 

The  two  Tilton  girls  —  of  about  seventy  winters  of 
age  —  had  reluctantly  found  lodgings ;  reluctantly,  I 
know,  and  with  many  regrets,  but  with  great  inward 
relief,  and  with  some  outward  relief,  also.  They  had 
lived,  for  thirty  years,  on  the  brink  of  poverty.  Jack, 
driving  with  Nan,  found  himself  wondering  how  it 
would  seem,  now,  to  go  by  the  place  and  not  to  find  the 
fence  all  rotting  and  breaking  down  from  age,  and  not 
to  see  the  lawn  all  littered  with  the  broken  branches  and 
the  leaves  which  the  Tilton  girls,  poor  old  ladies,  had 
not  been  able  to  clear  up  in  their  nightly  scavenging. 
Why,  many  a  time,  he  had  gone  over  before  breakfast 
and  done  what  he  could,  piling  the  wood  neatly  by  the 
kitchen  door.  The  Tilton  girls  had  needed  their  wood 
to  use,  and  had  never  seemed  to  see  him. 

They  were  coming  to  the  place  now.   There  was  a 
104 


OLD    HARBOR 


new  fence,  a  copy  of  the  old  one,  and  the  lawn,  under 
the  old  trees,  was  swept  and  garnished.  Jack's  heart 
warmed  with  gratitude  to  Nan.  It  was  more  than  he 
—  more  than  anybody  had  a  right  to  expect  of  her. 

"That's  very  nice  of  you,  Miss  Hedge,"  he  said. 

Nan  looked  surprised.  "Why,  I'm  going  to  take 
you  —  oh,  you  mean  the  fence,"  she  replied.  She 
smiled  sweetly.  "The  old  fence  was  perfect  in  design. 
We  could  n't  do  better  than  to  have  one  just  like  it. 
And  see  —  there,  ahead  of  us !  There  are  the  two  Miss 
Tiltons.  They  come  by  here  every  day,  but  I've  never 
been  able  to  catch  them  yet." 

Jack  made  a  movement  which  Nan  interpreted, 
rightly,  as  preparation  for  getting  out;  and  she  pro 
ceeded  to  cut  off  his  retreat. 

"Not  yet,  Mr.  Catherwood,"  she  said.  "I'm  going 
to  take  you  home  —  if  that's  where  you  want  to  go." 

She  went  to  meet  the  two  Miss  Tiltons.  They,  poor 
old  ladies,  were  coming  to  make  their  daily  inspection 
of  their  old  home,  in  which  they  had  been  born,  and  in 
which  they  had  lived  all  their  lives;  coming  to  see 
whether  Nan  was  doing  or  had  done  anything,  since 
their  visit  of  the  day  before,  which  they  could  reason 
ably  criticise ;  an  event  which  they  expected,  as  a  mat 
ter  of  course,  and  of  which  they  were  in  daily  fear. 
Miss  Hitty  walked  stiffly,  in  her  new  black  stuff  dress 
and  her  new  black  bonnet,  and  Miss  Susie  pattered 
along  beside  her,  also  in  a  new  black  stuff  dress  and 
a  new  black  bonnet.  All  Old  Harbor  knew  how  it 

105 


OLD    HARBOR 


happened  that  they  had  those  new  dresses  and  those 
new  bonnets.  They  had  not  had  more  than  one  new 
thing  at  a  time,  between  them,  for  —  oh,  for  a  long 
time  —  years.  Miss  Hitty,  defiantly,  did  not  care  who 
knew;  Miss  Susie  was  content  to  abide  by  Kitty's 
opinion  in  this  matter,  as  she  did  in  everything  else. 

"Really,  sister,"  Miss  Susie  had  said  timidly,  "it  is 
very  nice,  I  think,  outside.  The  fence,  now,  —  just  like 
the  old  one,  —  just  like  it.  We  could  n't  have  done 
better,  ourselves  —  if  —  if  we  could  have  done  it." 

"Of  course  it's  nice,  Susie,"  said  Miss  Hitty,  de 
cidedly.  "  Nancy  Hedge  could  n't  do  better,  and  she 
had  sense  enough  to  know  it.  That's  what  surprises 
me." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  assented  Miss  Susie,  in  haste; 
"  that  would  surprise  one.  But  —  but  the  lawn  —  she 
has  n't  cut  any  of  the  trees  down  —  and  it 's  so  —  so 
neat.  I  —  I  wish  we  could  have  managed  to  keep  it 
as  neat  as  that,  sister." 

"Well,  we  could  n't,"  snapped  Miss  Hitty.  "We  did 
the  best  we  could  with  it.  You  know  we  did.  I  only 
wish,"  she  sighed,  "we  could  see  the  inside  of  it.  I'd 
like  to  see  whether  she  had  the  sense  to  leave  the  inside 
of  it  alone,  too.  But  I  won't  call  on  Nancy  Hedge. 
I  won't!" 

" Oh,  sister !"  gasped  Susie.  "Don't  say  that  —  so 
—  so  decidedly.  Not  if  she  asks  us  especially  ?  Think 
how  much  we  want  to  see  it." 

"  Well,"  answered  Miss  Hitty.  They  did  want  to  see 
106 


OLD    HARBOR 


the  inside  of  the  house;  they  wanted  it  very  badly. 
They  had  set  their  hearts  on  it.  "Well,"  answered 
Miss  Hitty,  slowly,  thinking  of  the  room  that  had  been 
their  mother's,  —  the  room  that  they  had  always  reli 
giously  kept  closed,  —  "well,  if  she  should  beg  us  to 
go,  as  a  favor,  perhaps  I  —  Why,  there  she  is  now ! 
Susie !  she  's  almost  here.  Right  opposite." 

Miss  Susie,  trembling,  tried  to  focus  her  near-sighted 
eyes  upon  the  thing  in  the  road  which  she  supposed 
must  include  Nan. 

"Now!"  whispered  Miss  Hitty,  sharply.    "Bow!" 

Miss  Susie  bowed,  with  a  sweet  little  smile;  a  much 
sweeter  smile  than  her  sister  could  have  managed  if  she 
had  tried.  Miss  Hitty  had  not  tried. 

"  Susie,"  whispered  Miss  Hitty  again,  "  Jack  Gather- 
wood  's  with  her  —  driving  with  her." 

Miss  Susie  gave  a  little  cry  of  delight  and  fumbled  for 
her  glasses.  They  were  stuck  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress, 
and  she  found  them  in  time  and  stuck  them  on  her  nose 
at  an  absurd  angle.  Miss  Susie's  glasses  always  looked 
absurd  on  her  delicate  nose.  They  had  broad  black 
rims,  and  were  always  set  on  at  an  angle  which  made 
them  look  as  if  they  were  about  to  tumble  off ;  which 
they  invariably  did,  at  the  slightest  provocation,  falling 
to  the  limit  of  their  black  ribbon.  Nan  was  just  draw 
ing  up  beside  them. 

"  Jack ! "  cried  Miss  Susie,  giving  him  both  her  hands. 
Then  she  remembered.  Her  glasses  fell  off,  of  course, 
but  she  recovered  them,  and  set  them  on  at  an  angle 

107 


OLD   HARBOR 


even  more  absurd  than  before.  "I  —  I  beg  your  par 
don,  Miss  Hedge.  I  have  not  seen  Mr.  Catherwood  for 
nearly  a  year." 

It  was  not  necessary  for  Miss  Susie  to  say  that  she 
was  very  fond  of  him,  and  she  did  not  say  it. 

Nan  smiled.  "  Of  course,"  she  said.  "  I  understand 
how  glad  you  must  be  to  see  him." 

She  waited,  silent  and  smiling  a  little  —  perhaps  at 
the  very  evident  joy  of  the  two  old  ladies ;  perhaps  at 
—  but  I  do  not  know  what  she  was  smiling  at.  Nancy 
Hedge  was  an  inscrutable  young  person.  Miss  Hitty 
smiled  at  Jack,  too,  and  was  evidently  as  glad  to  see 
him,  in  her  way,  as  Miss  Susie  was. 

"You  will  come  to  see  us,  Jack?"  asked  Miss  Susie, 
relinquishing  his  hands  at  last. 

"I'll  come,  right  away,"  said  Jack. 

Nan  thought  it  was  time  for  her  turn. 

"Miss  Tilton,"  she  said  to  Miss  Hitty,  in  her  most 
gracious  manner,  —  Nan's  manner  could  be  very  gra 
cious,  —  "  won't  you  both  go  into  the  house  for  a  few 
minutes  ?"  She  saw  Miss  Hitty  hesitate.  She  thought 
she  might  be  about  to  refuse.  "I  beg  that  you  will," 
Nan  went  on.  "I  shall  be  back  in  a  very  few  minutes 
- 1  have  only  to  leave  Mr.  Catherwood  at  his  door." 

Jack  seemed  to  see  a  chance,  and  protested  that  he 
would  get  out  there.  Nan  turned  to  him. 

"I'm  going  to  take  you  home,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice. 

The  use  of  that  low  voice  by  Nan  —  well,  Jack 
108 


OLD   HARBOR 


did  n't  know  what  impression  it  would  convey  to  Miss 
Hitty  and  Miss  Susie.  It  is  to  be  supposed  that  Nan 
knew.  She  turned  to  Miss  Hitty  again. 

"  Just  for  a  few  minutes,"  she  continued,  "  as  a  favor 
to  me."  Miss  Susie  looked  at  her  sister  triumphantly. 
"  Mrs.  Haight  will  receive  you.  Please  tell  her  that  I 
will  be  right  back." 

She  nodded  to  both  the  old  ladies,  smiling  brightly, 
and  drove  on. 

"  She  did  n't  give  me  a  chance  to  refuse,"  said  Miss 
Hitty,  grimly,  "and  I  suppose  we  had  better  go  in." 

"But,  sister,"  said  Miss  Susie,  "she  asked  us  as  a 
favor  to  her  —  and  you  know  you  said  — " 

"Well,  I'm  going,"  said  Miss  Hitty. 

Nan,  driving  on,  was  explaining.  "Lest  you  should 
be  curious,  Mrs.  Haight  is  a  widow,  not  too  young, 
who  is  staying  with  me  indefinitely  —  an  old  friend," 
she  added,  with  one  of  her  smiles. 

Jack  laughed. 

"Now,"  continued  Nan,  "shall  I  leave  you  at  your 
house  ?  I  have  discovered  which  it  is." 

Jack  laughed  again.  "I  was  going  to  my  aunt's," 
he  said;  "but  if  it  is  out  of  your  way — " 

"Nonsense!"  said  Nan,  "Miss  Joyce's?" 

Jack  was  accordingly  driven,  in  state,  and  in  great 
discomfort  of  mind  —  and  of  body  —  past  his  own 
house.  Nobody  was  in  sight  there,  to  his  very  con 
siderable  relief ;  although  it  did  not  follow,  from  that, 
that  nobody  happened  to  observe  him.  As  Nan  ap- 

109 


OLD   HARBOR 


preached  the  Joyce  gate,  he  saw  Doctor  Olcott's  old 
white  horse  ambling  away  from  it. 

Nan  stopped  at  the  gate,  and  Jack  jumped  out. 
"Thank  you  very  much,  Miss  Hedge." 

For  some  reason,  Nan  seemed  much  amused. 
"Have  n't  you  had  a  pleasant  drive,  Mr.  Cather- 
wood?"  she  asked,  leaning  out  towards  him. 

"Very  pleasant,"  he  answered,  smiling.  "How  can 
you  ask?" 

"Well,  then,"  said  Nan,  "you  must  say  so."  She 
laughed  gayly.  "  Come  and  see  me,  Mr.  Catherwood," 
she  went  on,  gathering  up  the  reins.  "You  will  find 
it  perfectly  safe.  Mrs.  Haight  will  be  there  to  protect 
you." 

Jack  laughed.  "I  will,"  he  said;  and  Nan  drove  off 
to  meet  the  Miss  Tiltons. 

Jack  was  still  laughing  to  himself  as  he  let  him 
self  in  and  started  up  the  long  walk.  After  all,  there 
was  something  very  attractive  about  Nancy  Hedge. 
He  did  n't  quite  understand  her,  but  there  was  some 
thing  distinctly  attractive  about  her.  He  said  it  over 
to  himself,  and  he  knew  that  he  had  never  more  fully 
meant  anything  than  he  meant  that  last  "  I  will." 


CHAPTER  X 

JACK  was  still  half  smiling  as  he  mounted  the  steps. 
He  had  come  slowly  up  the  long  walk,  that  was  liber 
ally  sprinkled  with  sunshine  now  that  there  was  no 
thing  but  the  bare  bones  of  the  trees  to  stop  it,  his  mind 
filled  with  pleasant  thoughts.  There  was  the  harbor 
itself,  to  give  the  atmosphere  of  peace  and  antiquity 
that  was  best  suited  to  Old  Harbor;  there  was  his 
father's  office,  of  which  he  would  be  a  part.  It  did  not 
undo  what  the  harbor  had  done,  but  rather  strengthened 
the  impression  of  peace  and  serenity.  And  there  was 
Heywood,  who  seemed  to  be  of  the  past,  rather  than 
to  remind  him  of  it.  Heywood  was  content. 

There  was  Nan  Hedge,  who  was  far  from  content, 
no  doubt,  and  who  had  little  of  the  serenity  that  was 
characteristic  of  Old  Harborites.  But  she  would  ac 
quire  it,  if  she  stayed  long  enough;  it  might  be  truer 
to  say  that  she  would  not  stay  unless  she  found  con 
tent.  She  might  not  find  it.  Stranger  things  have 
happened.  There  was  something  very  attractive 
about  her;  she  was  even  charming,  in  her  way,  even 
if  one  did  not  understand  her  fully.  It  did  not 
occur  to  Jack  that  her  attractiveness  lay  in  that  very 
fact,  and  that  Nan  knew  it  very  well.  He  smiled, 
none  the  less,  as  he  thought  of  Nan.  And  there  was 

111 


OLD  HARBOR 


MacLean,  but  the  less  thought  wasted  on  MacLean, 
the  better. 

And  there  were  the  Tilton  girls.  Old  Harbor  was 
a  pretty  good  place  to  live  in,  if  you  were  old,  and  not 
so  bad  if  you  were  young.  And  there  was  his  aunt 
Harriet,  —  she  reminded  him  of  Miss  Hitty  Tilton,  in 
spite  of  the  difference  in  age,  —  who  was  eminently 
suited  to  Old  Harbor  and  to  no  other  place  in  the 
world,  unless  there  were  some  other  place  just  like 
it.  And  there  was  his  uncle  Eben.  Jack  had  been  so 
used  to  thinking  not  at  all  of  his  uncle  Eben  that 
it  was  with  something  of  a  shock  that  he  realized 
that  his  was  now  an  actual  presence  to  be  reckoned 
with.  He  wondered  how  he  should  manage  that; 
what  sort  of  a  man  his  uncle  Eben  was  now.  It  was 
hardly  likely  - 

To  him,  mounting  the  steps  and  wondering,  and  half 
smiling  at  his  pleasant  thoughts,  the  door  opened. 
There  was  Miss  Harriet  in  the  doorway,  looking  as 
pleased  as  Punch  and  smiling  down  at  him  affection 
ately;  and,  in  the  half  darkness  of  the  hall  behind 
her,  Jack  thought  he  saw  another  figure  dodging  to 
and  fro,  shy,  wishing  to  be  pleased,  seemingly,  but  not 
knowing  whether  to  be  or  not. 

"Well,  Jack!"  cried  Miss  Harriet;  and  stepped  out 
of  the  doorway  and  presented  her  cheek,  which  Jack 
saluted,  laughing.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you.  I  thought 
it  was  about  time  you  came  to  see  me  and  Eben.  The 
few  minutes  that  I  saw  you  the  other  day  don't  count." 

112 


OLD   HARBOR 


She  turned  to  the  other  figure,  which  had  retreated 
towards  the  library  door.  "Eben!"  she  called. 

Eben  obeyed  the  implied  command,  and  came 
back.  Nearly  everybody  obeyed  Miss  Harriet.  Jack 
advanced  quickly,  with  his  hand  outstretched. 

"  Uncle  Eben,"  he  said,  "  I  'm  glad  to  see  you  — 
glad  —  we're  all  glad  that  you  have  come  back." 

Eben  took  Jack's  hand  —  allowed  Jack  to  take  his, 
rather.  Jack  was  conscious  of  delicate  fingers  that  lay 
in  his  hand  without  response  to  his  slight  pressure. 

"Thank  you,  Jack,"  answered  Eben,  in  a  gentle 
voice  that  shook  a  little.  "You're  very  good;  every 
body  is  very  good  to  me." 

"I  know  that  Aunt  Harriet  would  be,"  said  Jack, 
heartily,  with  an  affectionate  look  at  that  lady.  "  She 's 
always  good ;  the  rest  of  us  don't  count  much." 

The  delicate  fingers  pressed  his  ever  so  slightly 
before  he  let  them  go.  Eben  smiled  tremulously  and 
the  tears  started  to  his  eyes.  He  was  still  weak. 

"Nonsense!  "he  said.  "Nonsense!  You  don't  know. 
It  means  a  great  deal  to  me." 

He  laughed  awkwardly  and  turned  away. 

Jack  was  sorry  for  him ;  far  too  sorry  to  say  anything 
then.  They  went  into  the  library,  and  Miss  Harriet 
seated  herself  on  the  sofa  in  the  corner,  the  sofa  cov 
ered  with  faded  green  rep ;  and  she  patted  the  seat 
beside  her. 

"Come,"  she  said;  "you  sit  down  here  beside  me, 
and  tell  me  about  yourself.  First,  what  in  the  world 

113 


OLD  HARBOR 


do  you  mean  by  driving  about  town  with  that  Hedge 
girl  ?  England  can  wait. " 

Jack  laughed.  Even  Eben  smiled  sympathetically. 
Eben  had  seated  himself  in  a  low  chair  that  was  drawn 
into  a  sunny  corner,  between  two  windows,  and  had 
laid  his  head  back,  as  though  it  was  an  effort  for  him 
to  hold  it  up.  Through  the  long  window  behind  him 
the  sunshine  streamed,  enveloping  him  and  lapping 
him  in  its  comforting  warmth.  Falling  on  his  face,  so, 
it  seemed  to  accentuate  the  gentle  delicacy  of  his  fea 
tures.  Jack  found  himself  wondering;  marveling  that 
it  should  be  so.  He  wondered  what  could  have  been 
his  experiences  in  the  past  fifteen  years;  how  it  was 
possible  that  he  could  have  fallen  so  low  as  he  must 
have  fallen,  and  yet  show  no  signs  of  coarsening.  Eben 
did  not  talk  about  his  experiences.  Even  to  Har 
riet  he  had  not  alluded  to  them.  As  far  as  any  one 
in  Old  Harbor  was  concerned,  he  might  have  died, 
that  night,  fifteen  years  ago,  and  have  been  but  just 
resurrected.  Indeed,  so  far  as  Old  Harbor  was  con 
cerned,  he  had  been  dead  for  those  fifteen  years,  to 
all  intent. 

"England  can  wait,  no  doubt,"  Jack  returned.  "  It 
has  waited  for  a  good  while,  so  that  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  more  or  less,  will  make  no  difference  to  it.  What 
is  the  matter  with  the  Hedge  girls?" 

"  Did  I  say  there  was  anything  the  matter  with  her?" 
asked  Miss  Harriet,  smiling. 

"Not  in  so  many  words,  Aunt  Harriet,"  said  Jack. 

114 


OLD   HARBOR 


"  Your  manner  implied  it.  However,  that  is  of  no  con 
sequence.  There  may  be  or  there  may  not  be.  I  don't 
hesitate  to  say  that  I  find  her  rather  attractive." 

Miss  Harriet  sighed,  still  smiling.  "I  was  afraid 
you  did." 

Jack  laughed  again.  "She  must  be  very  terrible," 
he  said,  "to  inspire  fear  in  the  breast  of  Miss  Harriet 
Joyce.  I  thought  you  were  n't  afraid  of  anything,  Aunt 
Harriet." 

"Well,"  she  answered  slowly,  "I  don't  know  that 
I  'm  afraid  of  any  person  ;  but  I  'm  not  so  very  brave, 
after  all.  The  very  thought  of  —  but  you  have  not 
answered  my  question,  Jack." 

"It's  not  because  I  have  the  least  objection  to  an 
swering  it,"  said  Jack.  "Why  was  I  driving  about 
town  with  that  Hedge  girl  ?  "  A  smile,  which  Jack  could 
not  wholly  repress,  started  and  grew  as  he  recalled  his 
feelings  at  the  time.  "Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  did  n't 
go  for  to  do  it.  In  fact,  I  —  well,  —  I  happened  to 
meet  her  in  front  of  the  office  just  as  I  came  out,  and, 
of  course,  I  had  to  stop  — 

"  '  Of  course ! ' "  cried  Miss  Harriet.  "There's  no  'of 
course '  about  it.  You  did  n't  have  to  stop  unless  you 
wanted  to." 

Jack  was  well  aware  that  he  had  stumbled  and 
blundered  badly  in  saying  what  he  had  said,  just  as 
he  might  have  been  expected  to  do  if  there  were  any 
reason  for  his  being  embarrassed.  He  knew,  too,  that, 
if  there  had  been  any  reason  for  it,  he  would  not  have 

115 


OLD  HARBOR 


been  embarrassed  in  the  least.  He  was  sorry  that  he 
was  giving  the  impression  that  he  particularly  did  not 
want  to  give.  But  after  all,  it  was  rather  amusing. 
Why  should  he  care  ? 

"  That  is  sufficient  evidence,  Aunt  Harriet,"  said  he, 
"that  you  have  had  no  intimate  relations  with  Nan 
Hedge  —  " 

"Intimate  relations!"  sniffed  Miss  Harriet,  scorn 
fully.  "I  should  think  not,  indeed.  Have  you  had  in 
timate  relations  with  her?" 

"Well,  —  no,"  laughed  Jack.  "Not  yet.  But  I  may 
have.  I  give  you  fair  warning." 

"Thank  you  for  the  warning,"  replied  Miss  Har 
riet,  "but  I  hope  you  won't." 

"The  family  is  safe  for  the  present,"  Jack  continued. 
"I  was  unfortunate  in  my  choice  of  words.  What  I 
meant  was  that  you  could  n't  know  Nan  Hedge  if  you 
thought  that  I  did  n't  have  to  stop  and  speak  to  her, 
whether  I  wanted  to  or  not;  although,"  he  added 
slowly,  "  I  don't  know  that  I  had  any  rooted  objection 
to  doing  it." 

"No,"  said  Miss  Harriet;  "I  believe  that." 

"  She  has  a  way  of  making  it  very  awkward  for  you 
to  do  anything  that  is  not  in  accordance  with  her  plans. 
At  last,  she  offered  to  drive  me  up  the  street,  and," 
Jack  went  on,  rather  lamely,  "so,  of  course,  there 
did  n't  seem  to  be  anything  for  me  to  do  but  to  accept. 
I  did  so,  as  gracefully  as  I  could.  It  was  n't  very 
graceful." 

116 


OLD  HARBOR 


"  Oh,  Jack ! "  cried  Miss  Harriet.  "  As  if  you  were  n't 
a  free  agent." 

Jack  leaned  back  in  a  corner  of  the  sofa.  "Well, 
I  was  n't.  It  would  have  been  extremely  rude  and 
pointed  if  I  had  not.  I  don't  know  of  any  reason  for 
being  rude  to  Nan  Hedge,  except  that  there  seems  to 
be  a  general  dislike  of  her.  That  is  no  reason." 

"N-no,"  admitted  Miss  Harriet.  "In  fairness,  I 
acknowledge  that  it  is  n't."  Justice  and  fairness  could 
always  be  counted  on,  from  Miss  Harriet.  "  But  I 
should  like  to  know  what  she  was  doing,  away  down 
there  by  the  wharves,  and  just  as  you  were  coming 
out  of  the  office." 

"  I  did  n't  ask  her,"  Jack  replied.  "  I  should  have 
been  no  wiser  if  I  had.  She  may  have  been  waiting  for 
me  to  come  out,  but  I  don't  believe  it.  All  the  girls  I 
have  ever  met,  apparently  by  accident,  may  have  been 
waiting  for  me.  I  don't  believe  that,  either.  Nan 
Hedge,"  he  went  on,  musing,  "is  a  very  handsome  girl 
—  and  extremely  — she  dresses  very  handsomely,  too." 

"She  does,"  said  Miss  Harriet,  very  snippily. 
"  Her  dress  is  altogether  too  striking  for  this  quiet  old 
town." 

Jack  was  playing  with  a  paper-cutter. 

"You  can  hear  her  presence?  Well,  perhaps.  It  is 
not  to  be  expected  that  everybody  will  come  up  to  the 
standards  of  Old  Harbor." 

Miss  Harriet  sighed.  "  I  do  hope,  Jack,  that  you  are 
not  going  to  be  smitten  with  Nancy  Hedge." 

117 


OLD  HARBOR 


"You  never  can  tell,  Aunt  Harriet,"  said  Jack, 
solemnly.  "I  have  known  such  things  to  happen.  In 
—  in  fact,  I  think  I  feel  it  coming  on  at  this  moment, 
in  the  region  of  my  heart."  He  looked  over  at  Eben 
Joyce  and  winked. 

Miss  Harriet  had  seen  it.  "You  absurd  boy!"  she 
cried,  laughing. 

There  was  one  touch  yet  to  come ;  Jack  added  it  with 
a  triumph  which  was  well  concealed. 

"Aunt  Harriet,"  he  said,  "you  must  have  noticed 
that  Miss  Hedge  has  not  done  anything  to  the  Tilton 
place  which  anybody  can  reasonably  find  fault  with. 
The  lawn,  now,  is  irreproachable,  as  Miss  Hitty,  her 
self,  would  have  liked  to  keep  it;  and  the  fence, — 
surely,  she  gets  a  white  mark  for  that?" 

Miss  Harriet  gave  a  grudging  assent.  "But,"  she 
added,  "the  fence  was  exactly  in  keeping,  anyway,  if 
it  only  could  have  been  kept  in  repair.  Its  design  was 
classic." 

"Well,  give  her  credit  for  sense  enough  to  recognize 
that." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Miss  Harriet,  grimly,  "  that  Nancy 
Hedge  has  been  abroad  enough  and  seen  enough  to 
know  that,  even  if  she  does  n't  believe  it.  Her  father 
is  very  rich.  There's  one  thing  she'd  like  to  have  that 
her  money  won't  buy,"  she  added,  with  satisfaction. 
"  I  'm  sure  she  would  like  to  have  the  Tilton  girls  call 
there.  I  can't  imagine  why  she  should  want  them  to, 
but  she  does.  Perhaps  —  I  suppose  it  would  be  a  tri- 

118 


OLD  HARBOR 


umph  for  her,  but  it  would  be  mean  to  gloat  over 
them.  Miss  Hitty  said  that  she  just  would  n't" 

Jack  smiled.  "It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "that  it 
would  be  as  easy  to  suppose  that  she  would  like  to 
show  them  that  the  house  was  unchanged." 

"Fiddlesticks!"  said  Miss  Harriet.  It  seemed  to 
settle  the  matter.  "Do  you  know  it,  Jack?" 

"No." 

"Well,  I  don't  believe  it,"  remarked  Miss  Harriet, 
with  emphasis.  "I  would  as  soon  believe  that  Miss 
Hitty  Hilton  had  called  on  Nancy  Hedge." 

Jack  smiled  again  and  leaned  toward  her.  "She 
has,"  he  said.  "The  Tiltons  are,  at  this  moment, 
drinking  Miss  Hedge's  tea  and  sitting,  I  have  no 
doubt,  in  her  back  parlor." 

Miss  Joyce  almost  collapsed.  "  Jack!"  she  cried.  It 
was  a  calamity.  Miss  Harriet's  sky  had  fallen.  She 
gave  a  long  sigh.  "  Well!"  she  said.  "I  never  did, 
in  all  my  life.  How  in  the  world  did  she  do  it?" 

"  I  told  you  that  she  manages  to  make  any  way  but 
her  own  impossible.  She  caught  the  Tiltons  while  she 
was  driving  me  up  here.  They  could  n't  get  out  of  it, 
and  they  went,  as  I  did.  I  do  not  doubt  that  they  are 
having  a  very  good  time."  Again  he  winked  at  his 
uncle.  "  Oh,  my  path  is  being  made  clear." 

Miss  Harriet  laughed,  in  spite  of  herself.  "  I  'm  afraid 
your  path  would  be  only  too  clear,"  she  said.  She 
sighed  again.  "  Oh,  Jack,  I  wish  you  would  n't." 

"  Don't  you  worry,  Aunt  Harriet,"  said  Jack,  reas- 
119 


OLD   HARBOR 


suringly.  "There's  no  danger"  —here  he  paused 
and  smiled  at  his  thoughts—  "yet." 

Miss  Harriet  put  out  her  hand  and  took  his.  "  Oh, 
Jack,  Jack!"  she  cried,  and  then  she  laughed.  It  was 
Miss  Harriet's  own  laugh,  bubbling  out  in  little  ripples 
as  though  she  could  n't  help  it.  She  could  n't.  It  was 
all  the  pleasanter  to  hear  for  that.  Jack  laughed,  too, 
and  so  did  Eben,  low  and  gently. 

Indeed,  Eben  had  been  smiling  all  the  time.  He  had 
evidently  been  glad  to  see  Jack;  had  rejoiced  in  his 
youth  and  health  and  strength  as  in  things  that  he  no 
longer  hoped  for,  for  himself.  His  delicate,  sensitive 
face  lighted  up  in  momentary  self-forgetfulness.  He 
was  happy,  for  the  time,  in  listening  to  the  talk  that 
seemed  to  flow  so  readily ;  happy  in  merely  being  there, 
in  the  sunshine,  and  in  not  being  spoken  to.  Eben  was 
only  thirty-five.  Miss  Harriet  did  not  see  the  pathos 
of  it.  It  had  never  once  occurred  to  her  to  think  of 
Eben  in  that  way,  but  it  would  have  made  Abbie 
Mervin  want  to  cry,  if  she  had  seen  it.  Miss  Mervin 
did  not  like  to  cry  or  to  want  to.  Eben  had  succeeded 
in  avoiding  her,  so  far.  But  Jack  saw  and,  seeing,  he 
said  nothing;  which  was  just  what  Eben  wanted. 

The  great  front  door  clicked  open  and  boomed  shut 
again,  and  instantly  the  light  was  gone  from  Eben's 
face.  He  had  remembered,  and  he  was  afraid.  He 
showed  it  plainly  as  he  started  up  and  made  hurried 
flight  to  the  door.  There  he  stopped,  his  hand  almost 
upon  the  knob.  That  was  not  the  way  he  wanted  to 

120 


OLD  HARBOR 


go,  right  into  the  arms  of  their  visitor.  He  knew  well 
who  their  visitor  was.  He  turned  and  fled  toward 
the  other  door,  meaning  to  sneak  quietly  up  by  the 
back  stairs  —  sneak  is  the  word.  Miss  Harriet's  face 
showed  some  annoyance.  It  even  showed  exaspera 
tion,  which,  I  take  it,  is  more  than  annoyance. 

"Eben,"  she  said,  somewhat  sharply,  "where  are 
you  going  ?  Must  you  run  from  everybody  who  comes 
into  the  house?" 

Eben  stopped  again,  arrested  in  his  flight.  He 
teetered  back  and  forth,  undecided.  "Why  —  why  — 
I  thought  I  would  — go  upstairs.  It  is  time  for  me  to 
go  up,  Harriet." 

"  Fiddlesticks ! "  said  Miss  Harriet,  decidedly.  "  Doc 
tor  Olcott  has  just  said  that  — 

"Oh,  let  me  go,  Harriet,"  Eben  pleaded.  His  time 
was  short,  for  he  already  heard  steps  just  outside,  in 
the  hall.  He  threw  his  arm  up  before  his  eyes,  as  if 
to  ward  off  something,  — an  involuntary  action, — and 
spoke  in  a  voice  that  was  hardly  more  than  a  whisper. 
"  I  don't  want  to  see  any  one.  Please  let  me  go." 

The  involuntary  action  and  the  pleading  voice 
touched  Jack.  His  uncle  Eben  must  have  been  —  what 
could  he  have  been  subjected  to,  to  make  him  do  so  ? 
But  Miss  Harriet  did  not  seem  touched  by  the  action 
nor  by  the  voice. 

"Nonsense!"  she  said.  "Sit  down,  Eben.  Will  you 
please  to  sit  down  ?  It's  only  Abbie." 

"I  know,"  whimpered  Eben.  He  turned  to  his  cor- 
121 


OLD  HARBOR 


ner  again  and  sat  down  like  a  sulky  child,  just  as  Ab- 
bie's  voice  was  heard  at  the  door. 

"Shall  I  come  in,  Harriet?" 

She  had  heard  voices,  and,  at  Harriet's  impatient 
"Of  course,  Abbie,"  the  door  opened  slowly  and  she 
looked  in.  She  saw  only  Harriet  and  Jack  sitting  on 
the  sofa. 

"Why,  Jack!"  she  cried;  and  she  came  in  swiftly, 
smiling  and  holding  out  her  hand.  She  was  glad  to 
see  him  and  she  showed  it.  Why  should  she  not? 
Jack  rose  and  took  the  outstretched  hand.  "It  is 
good  to  see  you  again,  Jack,"  she  said  heartily.  "  Don't 
you  be  running  away  from  us  for  so  long  again." 

Jack  made  some  reply,  he  hardly  knew  what;  but, 
no  doubt,  it  was  well  enough,  for  Abbie  did  not  notice 
anything  wrong  with  it.  Jack's  eyes  were  on  his  uncle 
Eben.  The  sulkiness  was  gone  —  had  seemed  to  drop 
from  him  like  a  garment.  He  had  managed  to  pull 
himself  together,  and  now  he  rose,  too,  and  stood,  with 
the  sunshine  from  the  window  behind  him  lighting  his 
figure,  which  had  lost  its  slight  stoop.  His  face,  in  the 
luminous  shadow,  showed  all  its  delicate  lines  and  all 
its  native  refinement.  He  seemed  to  have  become,  once 
more,  the  well-bred,  distinguished  boy  of  fifteen  years 
before.  Those  fifteen  years  were  as  if  they  had  not 
been.  Even  Miss  Harriet  saw  it  and  marveled  at  it. 
It  seemed  to  deprive  her  of  the  power  of  speech. 

"Abbie,"  said  the  gentle  voice,  "I  hope  you  have 
not  forgotten  —  " 

122 


OLD  HARBOR 


She  had  turned  at  the  very  first  sound,  her  hand  in 
stinctively  raised  to  her  heart,  and  the  quick  color 
surging  into  her  cheeks.  They  were  porcelain,  but  it 
was  not  rose-tint,  now;  it  was  crimson.  Then  the 
color  left  her  face  as  quickly  as  it  had  come.  She  was 
very  white  as  she  answered  him. 

"Eben!"  she  said,  low  and  softly.  "Eben!  I  have 
forgotten  nothing,  Eben  —  nothing." 

And  she  went  to  him,  standing  there  in  the  sunlight, 
and  held  out  both  her  hands. 


CHAPTER  XI 

WHAT  Abbie  Mervin's  feelings  were  when  she  found 
herself  face  to  face,  at  last,  with  Eben,  —  and  the  Eben 
of  her  dreams,  as  it  appeared,  not  the  Eben  of  her  ex 
pectations,  —  I  do  not  know.  Indeed,  it  is  to  be  sup 
posed  that  she  did  not  know,  herself,  if  one  can  judge 
from  her  actions.  She  was  not  bothering,  then,  even  to 
try  to  analyze  her  feelings,  —  the  attempt  at  an  analy 
sis  would  come  later,  —  but  it  was  evident  that  she  felt 
a  good  deal,  and  that  unexpected  emotion  was  strong 
upon  her.  It  was  rather  a  chaotic  emotion. 

She  held  his  hands  tightly  in  both  of  hers. 
"Eben!"  she  said  softly,  over  and  over.  "Eben!" 

As  she  said  it,  she  was  dimly  conscious  of  a  wish 
that  Harriet  and  Jack  would  go  away  and  let  her  have 
her  talk  with  Eben.  They  might  be  expected  to  have 
much  to  say  to  each  other  after  fifteen  years.  Harriet 
might  know  it ;  she  must  know  it.  In  fact,  Harriet  did 
know  it ;  she  knew  it  very  well.  Knowing,  she  made  no 
move  to  go.  For  she  saw  that  Abbie  was  in  a  very  exalted 
frame  of  mind,  and  she  knew  that,  in  that  state,  one 
is  hardly  responsible.  Abbie  might  easily  commit  her 
self  to  a  course  she  would  regret.  There  was  no  hurry. 
Miss  Harriet  did  not  make  the  mistake  of  considering 
herself  responsible  for  Miss  Mervin's  actions,  but 

124 


OLD  HARBOR 


there  was  no  hurry.  Let  them  get  over  the  first  sur 
prise.  Then  —  well,  they  could  make  fools  of  them 
selves  if  they  must.  At  least,  they  would  do  it  with 
their  eyes  open.  Miss  Harriet  was  not  so  sure  that 
they  would  be  making  fools  of  themselves.  After  all  — 

Eben  stood  and  looked  and  said  nothing.  What 
could  he  say  ?  Her  eyes  were  very  gentle  and  friendly, 
oh,  very  friendly,  if  nothing  more.  As  he  looked  into 
them  they  grew  softer  yet,  as  though  tears  were  coming. 
They  were  very  soft,  gentle,  friendly  eyes,  that  had 
always  looked  kindly  at  him.  Now,  in  spite  of  those 
years,  and  all  that  they  meant,  —  and  none  of  them 
all  knew  quite  what  they  meant  to  him,  —  the  eyes 
were  as  friendly  as  ever.  The  thoughts  that  raced 
through  Eben's  mind,  as  he  stood  there,  looking  into 
Abbie  Mervin's  eyes,  were  tumultuous  but  not  comfort 
ing;  no,  not  comforting;  distinctly  not.  His  shoul 
ders  once  more  took  on  their  slight  stoop  and  his  face 
the  expression  of  resignation  and  of  hopelessness.  It 
was  only  for  a  moment.  He  shook  them  off  again, 
resolutely.  What  made  him,  it  was  impossible  to  say. 
Perhaps  Abbie  lifted  him  out  of  the  slough  of  despond 
into  which  he  had  fallen ;  perhaps  she  lifted  him  out 
of  it  merely  by  the  force  of  her  faith  in  him.  It  was 
more  an  apparent  faith  than  a  real  faith,  although  it 
was  real  enough  at  the  time. 

He  smiled.  It  was  not  his  tremulous,  hesitating 
smile  that  Miss  Harriet  had  got  to  know  —  although 
his  mouth  quivered  a  little,  too. 

125 


OLD  HARBOR 


"  Abbie,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  gentle  and  wist 
ful  and  gracious,  all  at  once,  —  "  Abbie,  I  hope  you 
are  as  glad  to  see  me  as  I  am  to  see  you  —  as  glad 
as  you  seem  to  be.  Are  you?"  They  were  still  hold 
ing  each  other's  hands. 

Abbie  smiled,  too.  "I  am  glad,  Eben,"  she  an 
swered.  "I  am." 

It  would  not  be  difficult  for  her  to  carry  out  her 
intention,  after  all,  — carry  it  out  completely,  —  that 
intention  that  she  had  clung  to  all  these  years.  She 
might  have  done  it  then,  if  only  Harriet  and  Jack  had 
had  the  sense —  Miss  Harriet  stirred  uneasily.  She  was 
beginning  to  fear  that  Abbie,  at  least,  might  forget 
that  she  was  there. 

Abbie  flushed  a  little  and  dropped  Eben's  hands. 
It  was  not  yet  time. 

"It  is  so  good  to  see  Eben  again,"  she  said,  turning 
to  Harriet  with  a  little  laugh  of  delight ;  "  to  see  that 
he  is  not  changed,  not  one  mite.  I  thought,  from  what 
you  said"  -  She  stopped,  then  went  on  again.  "I 
almost  forgot  you  and  Jack,  Harriet." 

"Yes,"  replied  Miss  Harriet,  dryly.  "I  was  afraid 
you  had." 

Abbie  laughed  again  and  turned  to  Eben.  "  It  would 
have  been  terrible,  would  n't  it,  Eben?" 

Eben  smiled  at  her  in  response ;  affectionately,  Har 
riet  thought.  "Awful,"  he  said.  "Frightful  to  con 
template." 

Harriet  again  stirred  uneasily.  Jack  was  smiling 
126 


OLD   HARBOR 


broadly.  She  knew  there  was  some  pleasantry  afoot, 
and  Miss  Harriet  did  not  feel  at  home  with  pleasantries. 
She  did  not  have  a  speaking  acquaintance  with  them. 

"  Doctor  Olcott  has  just  been  in,"  she  said,  "perhaps 
a  half  hour  ago.  He  says  that  it  will  do  Eben  good  to 
see  people  now." 

"  Why  not,  to  be  sure  ?"  asked  Abbie.  "  Of  course, 
you  would  n't  want  to  get  the  whole  town  in  to-mor 
row,  Harriet  —  no  surprise  parties.  But  why  not,  a 
little  at  a  time?" 

Eben  looked  grateful  for  so  much.  He  seemed  to 
have  had  his  doubts  of  Harriet's  intentions. 

"Why,  of  course  not,  Abbie,"  said  Miss  Harriet, 
disgustedly.  "  Surprise  parties !  Do  you  take  me  for  a 
fool?" 

Abbie  did  not  smile.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Harriet," 
she  said.  "I  ought  to  have  known.  Well,  why  not 
begin  with  William,  and  Jack,  of  course,  and  me  to 
tea  ?  It  is  a  long  time  since  you  have  had  William." 

Miss  Harriet  did  not  seem  to  welcome  the  suggestion, 
from  Abbie,  of  having  William  to  tea.  Abbie  seemed 
to  have  altogether  too  much  of  William's  society.  She 
seemed  to  think  first  of  William  too  naturally.  But 
Harriet  could  think  of  no  good  reason  why  she  should 
not  ask  him,  no  reasonable  reason. 

"William  has  not  been  here  for  a  long  time,"  she 
replied  slowly;  "not  since  Eben  came  back.  I  don't 
feel  sure  "  —  Miss  Harriet  flushed  as  she  said  it  — 
"that  he  would  care  to  come." 

127 


OLD  HARBOR 


"Why,  Harriet!"  cried  Miss  Mervin.  "What  an 
idea !  As  if  he  did  n't  always  come  when  you  asked 
him!  I  will  ask  him,  if  you  don't  want  to  write  a 
note.  I'm  sure  I  can  persuade  him,  if  he  needs  per 
suasion.  I'm  sure  he  won't  need  it." 

This  suggestion  seemed  to  meet  with  even  less  favor 
than  the  first.  But  again  Miss  Harriet  could  think  of 
no  reasonable  reason  against  it. 

"You  may  not  happen  to  see  him,  Abbie." 
"Oh,  I  shall  see  him  this  afternoon." 
Abbie  had  spoken  before  she  thought.  Her  fore 
thought  came  afterwards,  and  she  blushed  furiously, 
and  was  angry  with  herself  for  it.  But  she  went  on 
as  if  there  was  no  reason  for  it,  —  as  there  was  not, 
she  told  herself,  —  or  as  if  she  had  done  nothing 
unusual.  "Harriet,  you  remember  that  you  asked 
him  to  read  something  of  his.  Why  would  n't  this 
be  a  good  time  ?  He  would  be  glad  to  do  it,  I  should 
think." 

"Very  well,"  said  Miss  Harriet,  looking  hard  at 
Abbie ;  "  you  ask  William  when  you  see  him  this  after 
noon.  Ask  him  for  a  week  from  to-night.  He  might 
as  well  bring  something  to  read,  if  he  will.  I  hope  he 
won't  choose  a  long  thing.  Can't  you  help  him  to 
choose  ?  "  Miss  Harriet  sighed.  "  If  you  see  him  so  often, 
you  will  have  plenty  of  opportunity.  I  don't  see  why  you 
need  get  so  red  about  it."  For  Abbie  was  blushing 
again,  and  only  got  the  redder  when  she  found  she  was 
blushing.  Harriet  had  no  business  to  misconstrue  her 

128 


OLD  HARBOR 


motives  —  to  be  so  —  so  obtuse.  Harriet  was  obsti 
nate,  very.  It  made  her  angry. 

"Harriet  Joyce,"  she  began  sharply;  then  she  hesi 
tated.  She  saw  Harriet  smile  in  what  she  chose  to  think 
was  a  disagreeable  way.  Whatever  Abbie's  intention 
had  been,  she  thought  better  of  it.  There  was  no  use  in 
having  a  quarrel  with  Harriet.  "Well,  I'll  ask  him, 
but  I  think  I'll  not  try  to  influence  his  choice." 

Jack  had  seen  Abbie  flare  up  before;  he  never  had 
seen  her  get  over  it  so  quickly,  and  he  smiled  quietly. 
Eben  had  seen,  too.  "A  soft  answer,  Abbie,"  he  mur 
mured. 

It  is  to  be  supposed  that  Harriet  had  noted  behavior 
that  one  would  not  have  expected  of  Abbie  Mervin; 
and  Harriet  knew  very  well  what  one  would  naturally 
expect  of  her.  She  gave  no  sign.  Harriet  must  have 
heard  Eben's  remark,  too,  even  although  it  was  mur 
mured,  one  would  have  thought.  Her  hearing  was 
excellent.  She  gave  no  sign  of  that,  either. 

"I  can't  see  why  not,  Abbie,"  she  said.  "You 
know  very  well  that  William  has  no  sense  about  such 
things." 

"  He  is  quite  capable  of  making  a  good  choice  of  his 
own  writings,"  answered  Abbie,  a  round  red  spot  ap 
pearing  in  each  cheek;  "much  more  capable  than  I 
am.  William  is  not  such  a  fool  as  you  seem  to  think, 
Harriet." 

"  Oh,"  Miss  Harriet  protested,  in  some  surprise  at 
the  tone  of  the  reply,  "  I  don't  think  William  is  a  fool." 

129 


OLD  HARBOR 


"You  appear  to,"  Abbie  retorted,  "and  that's  what 
I  said." 

Miss  Harriet  sighed.  Perhaps  she  did  appear  to; 
but  that  was  no  reason  for  Abbie's  coming  to  William's 
defense.  William  had  been  her  own  property  for  so 
long,  she  was  beginning  to  realize  that,  possibly,  he 
might  be  her  property  no  longer.  She  sighed  again. 

Jack,  hearing  the  sighs  emitted  by  Miss  Harriet, 
looked  at  her  carefully.  She  seemed  thinner  than  when 
he  had  seen  her  last,  and  careworn ;  yes,  unmistakably 
careworn.  Probably,  if  he  had  been  seeing  her  every 
day,  he  would  not  have  noticed  it.  No  doubt  the  care 
of  Eben  —  it  was  possible  — 

He  turned  to  his  uncle.  "Uncle  Eben,"  he  said, 
"it  occurs  to  me  that  you  might  like  to  come  into  my 
father's  office  occasionally.  There  is  very  little  doing 
there  and  people  seldom  come  in;  and,"  he  laughed, 
"  there  is  a  very  pretty  view  of  the  harbor.  I  start  in 
there  to-morrow,  to  work,  if  there  is  any  work  to  do. 
Why  don't  you  come  down  to-morrow  ?  I  think  that 
I  shall  have  time  to  show  you  what  there  is  to  see,  if 
you  want  me  to." 

Eben  looked  pleased.  "Perhaps  I  will,"  he  replied, 
"I  thank  you,  Jack.  Perhaps  I  will." 

Then  he  began  to  be  troubled.  How  should  he  get 
there  ?  How  should  he  get  there,  without  going  through 
the  streets  —  the  principal  streets,  and  meeting  — 
Heaven  knows  who  it  might  be  —  anybody  in  Old 
Harbor  that  he  had  n't  seen  for  fifteen  years,  even 

130 


OLD  HARBOR 


MacLean  ?  He  shuddered.  MacLean  would  want  to 
know  everything  that  had  happened;  he  would  not 
hesitate  to  cross-question  him  upon  the  happenings  of 
those  years.  MacLean  would  learn  nothing.  He  would 
fight  first,  he,  Eben,  —  or  run.  Yes,  running  was  eas 
ier,  and  would  not  attract  more  attention  than  a  fight 
with  MacLean.  There  were  those  in  Old  Harbor 
who  would  have  been  glad  of  an  excuse  for  fighting 
MacLean,  the  harmless  little  man.  But  running  was 
easier.  Eben  was  frightened  again;  he  was  rapidly 
working  himself  into  a  panic. 

Harriet  and  Abbie  had  been  talking  to  Jack,  and 
now  Jack  and  Abbie  were  going.  Eben  rose  and 
followed  them  into  the  hall. 

"  Don't  forget,  Uncle  Eben,"  Jack  called,  as  he 
was  about  to  shut  the  door,  "to  come  down  to-mor 
row." 

Eben  smiled  mechanically.  "I  won't  forget,"  he 
said.  He  was  surprised  to  hear  his  own  voice  and  to 
know  that  he  could  speak  so  calmly ;  surprised  that  he 
could  speak  at  all. 

"Good-by,  Eben,"  said  Abbie.  "I  shall  see  you 
again  soon."  Her  voice  was  almost  confidential,  and 
she  smiled  as  she  spoke. 

"I  hope  so,"  he  answered  graciously  and  gently. 
"Good-by." 

Then  the  door  shut.  Eben  turned  to  Harriet,  his  old 
manner  once  more  fixed  upon  him.  He  even  raised 
his  arm  before  his  face. 

131 


OLD  HARBOR 


"No,  no,  Harriet,"  he  whimpered.  "No,  no.  I 
don't  want  to  see  anybody." 

"Fiddlesticks!"  said  Harriet,  sharply.  "It  will 
do  you  good.  And  it's  only  Jack  and  Abbie  and 
William." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  anybody,"  repeated  Eben, 
plaintively. 

Harriet  sighed.  "We  can't  help  it,  now,  Eben," 
she  said  patiently.  "You'll  have  to  do  the  best  you 
can."  She  turned  and  went  swiftly  upstairs. 

She  almost  ran  along  the  upper  hall  to  her  own  room, 
went  in,  and  locked  the  door.  When  she  was  safe,  — 
she  had  been  afraid  of  doing  it  before,  —  she  burst  out 
crying,  and  threw  herself  into  the  old  armchair  that 
stood  at  the  head  of  the  bed.  She  did  not  forget  that  it 
was  covered  with  figured  blue  chintz,  and  she  took 
good  care  that  no  tears  should  fall  upon  it.  When 
she  had  wept,  violently  but  silently,  for  as  much  as 
fifteen  minutes,  —  an  unheard-of  thing  for  Miss  Joyce 
to  do,  —  she  stopped  as  suddenly  as  she  had  begun, 
and  wiped  her  eyes  repeatedly. 

"  Harriet  Joyce,"  she  said,  as  though  she  was  speak 
ing  to  a  naughty  child,  "you  are  a  fool !"  She  paused 
while  she  dried  her  eyes  thoroughly.  "  I  guess  I  'm 
tired,"  she  said  then.  "I'll  speak  to  the  doctor  about 
it,  when  I  think  of  it.  There's  no  hurry." 

She  smiled,  and  got  up  and  smoothed  her  hair  and 
went  down  to  Eben  again. 


CHAPTER  XII 

DOCTOR  OLCOTT  was  on  his  rounds  with  the  Polar 
Bear.  It  is  hard  to  see  how  he  would  have  got  along 
without  that  valuable  fur-bearing  animal,  for  he  was 
giving  no  attention  whatever  to  his  driving,  and  it  is 
to  be  doubted  if  he  knew  even  what  road  they  were 
taking  together.  He  had  one  leg  out  of  the  low  buggy, 
his  foot  on  the  step,  and  his  mind  seemed  to  be  wan 
dering —  taking  a  vacation,  perhaps,  although,  judging 
from  the  way  he  was  frowning,  he  was  worried  about 
something.  For  the  good  doctor  did  worry,  on  occasion, 
over  his  patients.  They  were  not  mere  cases  to  him; 
and  although  he  was  well  aware  that  it  was  considered 
bad  form,  and  fatal  to  the  doctor  concerned,  to  worry 
about  them,  they  were  human  beings  and  his  friends, 
most  of  them,  and  he  did  worry  over  them.  He  could  n't 
help  it.  He  did  n't  seem  to  be  getting  thin  with  his 
worry.  There  are  other  things  to  be  feared  than  getting 
thin. 

The  Polar  Bear  had  it  all  his  own  way,  and  he  knew 
it ;  and  he  jogged  along  with  his  customary  care,  turning 
out  for  any  carriage  that  they  met,  while  the  occupant 
of  that  carriage  hailed  the  doctor  heartily  and  the  doc 
tor  replied  as  heartily,  coming  back,  momentarily,  to 
his  surroundings  for  that  purpose.  The  Polar  Bear 

133 


OLD  HARBOR 


knew  well  enough  where  the  doctor  was  going,  and 
he  was  to  be  trusted  to  take  him  there  safely  and  to 
stop  before  the  right  gate;  and  then,  if  the  doctor 
had  not  come  to  himself  by  that  time,  to  look  around 
inquiringly. 

"Well,  doctor,"  the  look  said,  as  plainly  as  if  he 
had  spoken,  "here  we  are!  Why  don't  you  get  out? 
It's  your  move." 

Indeed,  he  always  said  it  plainly  enough.  If  what 
he  said  was  not  always  understood,  it  was  no  fault  of 
his. 

So  the  old  white  horse  jogged  on,  dragging  the  buggy, 
that  sagged  hopelessly  on  one  side,  under  the  not  in 
considerable  weight  of  the  doctor.  The  doctor  was 
aware  that  it  sagged  permanently,  and  that  the  top 
was  stained  and  weather-beaten.  The  fact  did  not 
trouble  him.  He  was  not  a  city  doctor,  with  fees  that 
would  enable  him  to  keep  an  automobile  and  a  chauf 
feur,  or  a  sanitarium,  —  and  a  sanitarium,  I  should 
have  said, —  and  which  would  have  made  it  necessary 
for  him  to  dress  the  part.  He  did  not  regret  the  auto 
mobile  and  the  chauffeur  nor  the  dress.  He  would  have 
found  all  of  them  but  a  burden ;  but  he  had  longings 
for  the  sanitarium.  He  would  put  Miss  Wetherbee 
in  it  and  make  her  work  like  —  like  —  ahem  —  other 
women,  Mrs.  Loughery,  for  instance.  And  he  would 
put  Joe  Loughery  in  it,  and  would  not  let  him  work. 
But  Joe  seemed  to  have  found  a  better  sanitarium  in 
the  pine  woods  than  any  ever  made  by  the  hand  of 

134 


OLD  HARBOR 


man.  It  was  simply  marvelous.  As  the  doctor  thought 
of  it,  he  sighed. 

The  Polar  Bear  veered  to  the  side  of  the  road,  turned 
his  head  inquiringly,  and  hesitated  slightly.  The  doc 
tor  came  to  himself. 

"No,  no,  Sammy,"  he  said.  "Not  to-day.  She 
has  n't  sent  for  me  to-day.  Go  on,  Sammy." 

The  old  doctor  chuckled  as  the  old  horse  took  the 
middle  of  the  road  again.  "You  didn't  know,  did 
you,  Sammy?  You  thought  that  Miss  Wetherbee 
might  have  sent  for  me  at  any  time,  did  n't  you  ? 
Well,  so  she  might.  She  may  even  have  sent  since 
we  started.  You  are  brighter  than  I  am,  Sammy. 
I'll  look." 

The  doctor  turned  and  looked  through  the  little  win 
dow  in  the  back  of  the  buggy.  He  saw  a  great  house,  — 
almost  too  great  a  house  for  one  poor  old  woman ;  for 
Miss  Wetherbee  was  a  poor  old  woman,  in  spite  of  her 
being  one  of  the  richest  in  Old  Harbor  and  inclined  to 
be  miserly,  —  a  great  house  that  stood  nearer  the  street 
than  was  the  fashion,  and  a  board  fence  about  shoulder- 
high.  The  board  fence  was  surmounted  with  two  feet 
more  of  pickets.  The  pickets  were  at  just  the  height 
to  make  it  most  trying  for  any  one  walking  by  the  fence 
when  the  sun  was  low,  so  that  such  persons  involun 
tarily  and  invariably  closed  their  eyes;  and,  in  con 
sequence,  involuntarily  and  invariably  ran  into  Miss 
Wetherbee  emerging  from  her  own  gate.  It  was  incon 
venient;  possibly  as  inconvenient  for  the  aforesaid 

135 


OLD  HARBOR 


persons  as  it  was  for  Miss  Wetherbee.  And  it  was 
annoying  to  have  Miss  Wetherbee  berate  you  for  run 
ning  into  her  when  it  was  rather  more  than  half  her 
own  fault.  She  had  no  business  to  have  such  a  fence, 
especially  about  sunset.  At  any  other  time  it  was 
well  enough,  for  you  could  see,  through  it,  the  very 
formal  little  garden  with  its  high  and  full  borders  of 
box.  The  box  alone  was  sufficiently  remarkable,  every 
plant  almost  a  tree. 

The  doctor  saw  all  this.  At  least,  if  he  did  not  see  the 
garden  behind  the  board  fence,  he  was  conscious  of 
it.  He  saw  more  than  this ;  for,  leaning  far  out  of  a 
window  just  over  the  door,  was  an  old  woman.  The 
old  woman  was  frantically  waving  a  handkerchief  and 
calling  "  Doctor !  Doctor  Olcott ! " 

The  doctor  chuckled  again.  "You're  right,  Sammy. 
She  has.  But  go  on.  We'll  stop  on  our  way  home. 
That'll  give  her  time  to  get  well.  If  she  gets  mad  about 
it,  so  much  the  better.  It'll  do  her  good.  I  wish,  I 
wish  I  had  Sanborn's  nerve." 

Sanborn  was  a  well-known  specialist,  who  lived  at 
the  hotel  at  which  Miss  Wetherbee  had  chanced  to  stay 
during  one  of  her  visits  to  Boston.  Miss  W7etherbee, 
who,  as  you  may  have  gathered,  was  a  hypochondriac, 
knew  that  he  lived  there  and  —  but  that  may  not  have 
been  her  reason  for  going  to  that  hotel.  It  would  not 
be  any  part  of  her  reason  for  going  there  in  the  future. 
For  Miss  Wetherbee  had  been  taken,  in  the  night,  with 
one  of  her  ill  turns,  and  had  summoned  Doctor  San- 

136 


OLD  HARBOR 


born  in  some  haste,  as  was  her  custom  with  any  doctor 
who  happened  to  be  handy.  The  doctor,  after  much 
grumbling  and  many  objections  to  getting  up  for  that 
purpose,  had  appeared.  He  cut  Miss  Wetherbee  short 
in  her  exposition  of  her  symptoms,  and  asked  her  if 
she  felt  as  if  she  was  dying,  which  question  made  her 
properly  indignant.  Then  he  prescribed  some  of  his 
pills  and  went  back  to  bed.  The  next  day  he  sent  her 
a  bill  for  seventy-five  dollars. 

The  indignation  which  Miss  Wetherbee  had  felt  at 
Doctor  Sanborn's  question  the  night  before  was  as  a 
summer  zephyr  to  that  which  she  felt  upon  receipt  of 
this  bill.  She  immediately  threw  his  pills  out  of  the 
window,  declaring  that  they  were  made  of  brown  bread, 
—  which  they  were,  —  and  got  well  at  once.  Sanborn 
told  Olcott  about  it,  when  they  met  at  the  convention 
that  year,  with  much  chuckling.  He  did  n't  care  an 
old  copper  whether  his  bill  was  paid  or  not;  but  he 
did  n't  mean  to  be  routed  up  in  the  night  again.  He 
was  n't;  not  by  Miss  Wetherbee. 

All  that  Miss  Wetherbee  needed  was  something  to 
do.  Doctor  Olcott  had  told  her  so,  bluntly;  and 
Miss  Wetherbee  had  scoffed  at  him  and  as  much  as 
called  him  an  old  fool.  Doctor  Olcott  had  smiled 
and  gone  away,  which  was  not  what  might  have 
been  expected.  Yes,  if  she  got  mad  with  him  now, 
why,  so  much  the  better.  He  sighed,  but  he  did  wish 
that  he  might  have  that  sanitarium.  He  could  make 
a  good  beginning  at  filling  it  right  away.  For,  besides 

137 


OLD  HARBOR 


Miss  Wetherbee  and  Joe  Loughery,  there  was  Mrs. 
Houlton. 

Mrs.  Houlton  did  not  have  Miss  Wetherbee's  com 
plaint.  She  never  complained.  She  had  no  time  for 
complaining,  even  if  she  had  been  inclined  to  it.  In 
deed,  a  widow  with  eight  children  and  next  to  nothing 
a  year  has  barely  time  to  eat  and  not  enough  to  sleep, 
and  Mrs.  Houlton  was  working  herself  to  death.  There 
was  no  manner  of  doubt  about  that,  and  the  doctor 
had  told  her  so,  as  nearly  as  he  dared,  and  that  was 
pretty  near.  He  had  urged  her  to  rest;  completely,  if 
possible,  but  if  she  could  not  do  that,  then  as  much 
as  she  could. 

Mrs.  Houlton  had  smiled  at  him  cheerfully.  "Don't 
you  think  I  ought  to  have  a  piece  of  the  moon  for  break 
fast,  doctor?"  she  had  asked,  somewhat  irrelevantly. 

The  doctor  had  growled  out  some  reply  about  feeble 
minded  persons  doing  as  they  were  told,  at  which  Mrs. 
Houlton  had  laughed  outright. 

Then  the  doctor  had  gone  home,  leaving  Mrs.  Houl 
ton  in  the  kitchen,  darning  stockings  while  she  got 
dinner  for  nine.  The  stockings  were  mostly  darns ;  and 
he  knew  very  well  that  she  would  sit  up  far  into  the 
night,  after  the  children  were  all  in  bed,  mending  the 
clothes  that  the  eight  were  to  wear  the  next  day.  So 
the  doctor  swore  softly  to  himself  and  sent  her  some 
work.  She  had  been  asking  for  work  that  she  could 
do,  and  she  embroidered  beautifully;  or  so  the  doctor 
thought.  And  although  the  doctor  was,  probably,  no 

138 


OLD  HARBOR 


judge  of  embroidery,  there  was  reason  to  think  that, 
in  this  instance,  he  was  right.  He  had  asked  her, 
in  Miss  Joyce's  name,  to  embroider  the  table-linen 
which  he  inclosed.  What  should  the  doctor  do  with 
embroidered  table-linen  ?  He  had  some  trouble  in 
selecting  the  linen ;  but  he  did  it, 

"I  '11  see  Hattie  to-morrow,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"and  make  it  right  with  her." 

Now  he  remembered,  with  a  shock,  that  he  had  not 
mentioned  the  table-linen  to  Hattie.  It  would  be  con 
venient,  in  some  respects,  if  he  were  married.  He  would 
not  be  buying  table-linen  for  widow  ladies  to  em 
broider  if  he  were  married,  and  he  was  much  more 
likely  to  be  wrong,  in  his  choice  of  linen,  than  right. 
He  would  stop  in  at  Hattie's  on  his  way  home  and 
consult  her ;  not  about  his  marriage,  —  and  the  doctor 
chuckled  once  more, —  but  about  the  table-linen. 
Doctor  Olcott  was  in  danger  of  forgetting  Miss  Weth- 
erbee.  When  he  had  settled  that  little  matter  of  the 
linen,  he  might  be  able  to  get  in  a  word  about  Miss 
Harriet  herself.  She  was  looking  poorly  —  run  down 
and  tired  out  with  nursing  Eben,  no  doubt.  A  vacation 
would  do  her  a  world  of  good.  She  might  manage  it, 
if  she  would. 

Suddenly  the  Polar  Bear  drew  in  to  the  curb  as  if 
he  would  stop.  The  doctor  was  annoyed. 

"Damn  it,  Sammy,"  he  said,  without  looking  up, 
"go  on.  What  you  stopping  for?"  And  he  slapped 
him  with  the  reins. 

139 


OLD  HARBOR 


Sammy  paid  no  attention  to  the  doctor's  evident 
wishes  in  the  matter  of  going  on,  but  continued  on  his 
way  to  the  curb,  his  spirits  no  more  ruffled  than  his 
thick  fur  by  so  small  a  thing  as  a  slap  of  the  reins.  He 
did  not  lay  it  up  against  the  doctor.  It  seemed  to  amuse 
the  doctor,  and  it  did  n't  hurt  Sammy;  but  Sammy's 
intentions  were  quite  as  evident  as  the  doctor's,  and 
Sammy  was  in  a  position  to  carry  them  out. 

"Well,  you  old  skate,"  remarked  the  doctor,  affec 
tionately,  "if  you  will,  you  will;  and  there's  an  end 
on't."  He  sighed,  and  roused  himself  and  looked 
around.  "Hitty  Tilton  must  want  me,"  he  said.  "She 
would  n't  send  till  the  last  gun  fired.  But  Sammy 
knew." 

He  got  out  of  the  buggy  with  some  difficulty,  and 
went  wheezing  into  the  house ;  from  which  he  presently 
emerged  with  a  look  of  great  satisfaction. 

"You  knew,  Sammy,  did  n't  you?"  he  said,  as  he 
slowly  climbed  in.  " It's  a  mystery  to  me  how  you  did, 
but  you  certainly  did.  We  settled  Hitty's  hash.  She'd 
have  been  a  sick  old  woman  if  we  had  n't,  with  the  cold 
weather  due  any  day ;  and  pneumonia,  Sammy.  Hitty 's 
not  in  the  first  flush  of  youth,  as  you  and  I  are,  Sammy, 
but  we  settled  her.  We  '11  get  no  thanks  from  her,  either. 
But  we  could  n't  neglect  the  Tilton  girls,  could  we  ? 
Bless  'em!  They  're  the  real  old  sort."  He  gathered 
up  the  reins.  "Now  go  on." 

Sammy  seemed  unwilling  to  start,  and  the  doctor 
looked  up  and  down  the  street.  He  saw  a  shrinking, 

140 


OLD    HARBOR 


furtive  figure  slinking  along  by  the  fence.  There  was 
nobody  else  in  sight.  The  doctor  leaned  out  of  the 
buggy. 

"Hello,  Eben !"  he  cried.  "Glad  to  see  you  out,  at 
last.  It'll  do  you  good.  Where  you  going ?" 

At  that,  Eben  pulled  himself  together  and  ceased  to 
slink.  He  seemed  the  man  he  was  not. 

"  Good-morning,  doctor,"  he  said,  in  his  gentle  voice. 
"I  was  going  down  to  Colonel  Catherwood's  office." 
He  had  come  nearer  the  buggy  as  he  spoke. 

The  doctor  looked  him  over  for  a  moment,  disgust 
and  scorn  in  his  gaze.  The  state  of  being  afraid,  the 
chronic  state  of  Eben,  was  one  which  he  could  not 
understand.  Then  he  roared. 

"Good  heavens!"  he  cried.  "Why, — why,  damn 
it,  this  is  n't  the  way  to  the  office."  He  sobered  again, 
for  Eben  had  begun  to  shrink  once  more.  "  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Eben.  Do  you  mind  telling  me  why  you  chose 
to  go  this  way  ? " 

" Why,"  replied  Eben,  smiling  sheepishly,  "I  — 
you  know  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  been  out.  I  —  I 
thought  that,  perhaps,  I  should  not  meet  people,  if  I 
went  a  roundabout  way.  I  know  this  way  must  seem 
ridiculous  —  but  —  but,  doctor,  you  can't  know"  — 
Eben  was  not  smiling,  now  —  "  people  will  ask  ques 
tions,  and  I  can't  answer  questions,  doctor.  I  can't 
and  won't!" 

"Well,  well,"  returned  the  doctor,  kindly,  "I  can't 
blame  you,  Eben,  for  feeling  so.  If  people  would  only 

141 


OLD    HARBOR 


mind  their  own  business !  I  think  they  would,  mostly, 
except  MacLean."  Doctor  Olcott  laughed.  "  He  can't. 
How's  Hattie,  Eben?" 

Eben  looked  surprised.  "  Why,  she  's  all  right. 
There's  nothing  the  matter  with  her,  is  there?" 

"No,  no,"  said  the  doctor,  somewhat  hastily. 
"There's  nothing  the  matter,  that  I  know  of."  The 
Polar  Bear  made  ready  to  get  under  way  again.  "  Well, 
good-by.  Brace  up,  Eben.  There  are  plenty  of  nice 
people  in  the  world,  after  all." 

He  nodded,  as  Sammy  began  to  jog  along  again, 
leaving  Eben  smiling  after  them  both.  They  were  a 
pair,  the  doctor  and  his  old  horse.  The  doctor  had 
some  such  thought. 

"  Go  on,  Sammy,"  he  urged.  "Hurry,  if  it  is  in  you. 
We  shan't  get  around  before  dinner,  at  this  rate.  But 
what  if  we  don't,  Sammy?  There's  nobody  waiting 
for  us."  He  sighed.  "I'm  beginning  to  wish  there 
was,  Sammy.  We  don't  need  anybody,  do  we,  Sammy, 
you  and  I,  two  old  skates  ?  " 

Sammy  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  the  doctor. 
They  understood  each  other.  They  went  on  together, 
and  Sammy  stopped  at  one  house  after  another,  and 
from  some  of  the  houses  Doctor  Olcott  puffed  out  cheer 
fully,  wheezing  to  Sammy  that  that  was  that.  As  if 
Sammy  did  n't  know  it !  From  other  houses  the  doctor 
emerged  slowly,  and  he  did  n't  tell  Sammy  that  that 
was  that,  but  he  took  up  the  reins  in  frowning  silence. 

So  it  happened  that  the  doctor  was  weary  in  body 
142 


OLD    HARBOR 


and  soul  by  the  time  the  Polar  Bear  stopped  before  Miss 
Joyce's  gate.  He  got  slowly  out  of  the  buggy,  which 
gave  under  his  weight  until  the  body  touched  the  axles 
on  one  side ;  and  he  went  puffing  and  wheezing  up  the 
long  walk.  Harriet  saw  him  coming  and  opened  the 
door  herself. 

"  Come  in,  doctor,"  she  said,  as  he  mounted  the  last 
step. 

The  doctor  was  very  short  of  breath.  "  I  'm  —  com 
ing."  He  plumped  down  on  the  hall  settle  and  wheezed 
there  for  a  few  minutes. 

"It's  too  bad  that  you  should  have  come  in  this 
morning,"  observed  Miss  Harriet.  "Eben's  gone 
down  to  the  office." 

"Yes.  I  met  him,"  replied  the  doctor,  smiling.  He 
had  got  his  breath  by  this  time.  "  I  came  in  to  see  you 
I  want  to  tell  you,  while  I  think  of  it,  Hattie,  that  if  I 
expire  suddenly  after  getting  in  this  house,  you  will  be 
responsible.  My  death  will  be  upon  that  smooth  head 
of  yours." 

Miss  Harriet  smiled  affectionately.  Not  many  who 
knew  him  could  help  regarding  this  rough  old  man 
affectionately,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  apt  to 
swear  absent-mindedly. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  always,  doctor,"  she  said; 
"but  I  am  quite  well,  I  think;  that  is — "  She  had 
remembered  suddenly  that  she  had  meant  to  ask  him  — 

"  Yes,  '  that  is,'  "  interrupted  the  doctor.  "  You  are 
well  enough,  but  tired  out.  You  must  be  careful, 

143 


OLD    HARBOR 


Hattie.   You  see,  I  'm  selfish,  as  usual.   I  only  want  to 
save  myself  some  work." 

The  tears  came  to  Miss  Harriet's  eyes.  It  showed 
that  the  doctor  was  right,  that  the  tears  should  come 
so  readily.  "If  all  selfish  men  were  like  you,  doctor!" 
she  exclaimed.  "What  do  you  wrant  me  to  do?" 

There  was  a  great  satisfaction  in  the  doctor's  voice. 
"  That 's  a  proper  spirit,  Hattie.  I  wish  all  my  patients 
were  as  reasonable.  Take  a  vacation  for  a  few  days. 
Go  on  a  spree." 

Miss  Harriet's  langh  bubbled  out,  at  that.  "  A  spree ! " 
she  cried.  "  I  almost  feel  as  though  I  could ;  as  though 
I  wanted  to.  But  what  do  people  do  when  they  are 
on  a  spree  ?  Is  n't  it  customary  to  —  drink  ?  " 

Doctor  Olcott  laughed  too,  a  great  rumbling  laugh. 
"  It  is  n't  necessary,"  he  said,  "  and  it  might  be  danger 
ous  for  some.  I  don't  advise  it,  although  it  would  do 
you  no  harm.  Go  up  to  Boston  and  —  and  go  to  some 
show  that  will  make  you  laugh  —  and  put  no  strain  on 
your  brain-cells.  Do  anything  that  comes  into  your 
head,  except  worry." 

"Well,"  she  replied,  speaking  slowly,  "I'll  think  of 
it.  I  think  I  will.  You  must  tell  me  more  about  it; 
prime  me,  before  I  go." 

"I  wrish,"  said  the  doctor,  grumbling,  "that  you 
could  induce  all  my  patients  to  take  my  advice  as 
well,  —  to  follow  my  prescriptions." 

"Why,"  asked  Miss  Harriet,  "who  is  difficult  now  ?" 
There  was  a  twinkle  in  her  eyes. 

144 


OLD    HARBOR 


"Mrs.  Houlton."   Miss  Harriet  laughed. 

"Oh,  you  may  laugh,"  said  the  doctor,  "but  she's 
killing  herself.  If  she  does  n't  take  a  rest,  she'll  die." 

"Forgive  me  for  laughing,  doctor,"  replied  Miss 
Harriet.  "  It  was  not  because  I  did  n't  appreciate  the 
gravity  of  the  situation.  Won't  she  obey  your  orders  ?" 

"  No,"  growled  the  doctor.  "  Obey  my  orders !  Why, 
she  flouts  me  and  my  orders.  It  makes  me  mad,  so  that 
I  say  things  that  I  should  n't." 

"Oh,  doctor,  you  don't  swear!" 

"I'm  afraid  I  do.  And  I'm  convinced  that  she'll 
give  me  a  fit  of  apoplexy.  She  laughs  at  me  when  I  am 
properly  mad.  She  just  laughs." 

Miss  Harriet  laughed  again.  "  I  knew  it,"  she  cried. 
"I  knew  it.  Have  you  been  there  this  morning?" 

"No,"  growled  the  doctor,  again.  "I  didn't  dare 
to."  He  told  her  about  the  table-linen  that  was  to  be 
embroidered. 

"  You  aid  and  abet  her  in  evil,"  said  Miss  Harriet, 
when  he  had  finished.  "What  else  can  you  expect?" 

The  doctor  rumbled  in  his  throat.  Miss  Harriet 
could  n't  understand  what  he  said,  except  that  it  was 
something  about  feeble-minded  and  foolish  women. 

"I'll  help  you  about  the  embroidering,"  she  said, 
"  and  I  '11  do  what  I  can  to  induce  her  to  take  a  rest,  but 
I  have  n't  the  least  expectation  of  success.  She  has  no 
husband  living  — 

"  Ought  to  have  one,"  rumbled  the  doctor.  "  Ought 
to  have  one,  to  make  her  stand  around." 

145 


OLD    HARBOR 


"Well?"  said  Miss  Harriet,  smiling. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Hattie?"  growled  the  doctor. 
"  WTiat  do  you  mean  by  your  insinuations  ?  If  you 
mean  me,  by  —  ahem  —  well,  I'd  marry  her  in  a  min 
ute,  if  I  thought  she  'd  take  orders  from  me  any  better. 
That  is,  if  she'd  have  me,  which  she  would  n't.  Of 
course  she  would  n't.  She's  no  fool." 

Miss  Harriet  was  still  smiling.   "Try  it,"  she  said. 

"  Try  it ! "  cried  the  doctor.  "  You  speak  as  if  it  was 
a  cough  medicine  or  a  tonic.  Well,  by —  er —  well,  if 
there's  no  other  way,  I  will.  By  gad,  Hattie,  I  will. 
A  pretty  mess  you've  got  me  into."  The  doctor  rose. 
"Good-by,  Hattie.  Don't  forget,  you're  to  go  on  a 
spree." 

He  rolled  off  down  the  walk,  while  Miss  Harriet 
stood  at  the  door,  smiling  after  him. 

The  doctor  came  into  his  house  very  late  in  the  after 
noon,  stopped  to  wheeze  awhile  on  a  chair  in  the 
hall,  then  took  off  his  coat,  sighed,  and  started  up  the 
stairs.  He  thought,  with  some  envy,  of  Sammy,  whom 
he  had  left  munching  his  oats  with  great  content.  The 
doctor  was  hungry,  too,  and  he  would  have  been  glad  to 
sit  down  to  his  supper  with  as  little  preparation  and  as 
free  a  mind  as  Sammy,  who  took  things  as  they  came. 
The  doctor  took  things  as  they  came,  too.  He  had 
to.  But  he  could  not  hope  for  a  free  mind.  He  sighed 
again;  and,  having  made  what  preparation  seemed 
necessary  for  supping  with  himself,  went  down. 

He  found  the  dining-room,  with  its  unshaded  lamp, 
146 


OLD    HARBOR 


unusually  dreary.  The  doctor  did  not  like  unshaded 
lamps ;  that  was  not  the  reason  that  he  had  it.  He  had 
talked  to  his  housekeeper  and  cook  about  it  until  he 
had  grown  weary  of  the  futility  of  talk.  His  house 
keeper  and  cook  was  a  well-meaning  person,  who  would 
have  done  anything  for  the  doctor  —  anything  in  rea 
son;  but  this  was  not  in  reason.  She  had  lived  in  an 
atmosphere  of  unshaded  lamps  all  her  life,  and  had  not 
been  aware  of  any  discomfort.  Why  should  the  doctor 
ask  for  a  shade  ?  Of  course,  if  he  had  insisted  upon  it, 
as  he  had  for  his  study  lamp,  with  language  that  a  self- 
respecting  woman  could  not  listen  to  —  he  had  even 
bought  a  lamp,  especially  for  it,  with  a  porcelain  shade ; 
and  green,  at  that,  with  not  a  single  bird  or  flower  on  it. 
And  he  had  said  that  if  she  kept  that  lamp  filled  and 
trimmed,  she  might  have  what  she  pleased  in  the  dining- 
room,  and  be  something  to  her.  She  had  left  the  room, 
at  that,  so  that  she  was  not  rightly  sure  just  what  it  was 
he  said. 

The  doctor  had  but  just  come  from  Mrs.  Houlton's. 
He  had  had  a  glimpse  into  her  dining-room :  a  pleasant 
room,  warm  and  snug  and  homelike,  with  its  shaded 
lamp  shedding  a  soft  glow  over  the  neatly  spread  table. 
No  doubt  his  own  dining-room  seemed  all  the  drearier 
for  that  glimpse,  and  his  own  supper  a  dismal  function 
to  be  got  through  with  as  soon  as  possible. 

He  finished  his  plate  of  apple-sauce  and  his  hunk  of 
gingerbread.  They  did  not  seem  to  merit  such  haste, 
for  it  was  good  apple-sauce  and  excellent  gingerbread ; 

147 


OLD    HARBOR 


but  the  doctor  seemed  to  be  in  a  hurry  —  perhaps  it 
was  merely  that  he  wanted  to  escape  from  that  cheer 
less  room.  He  pushed  back  his  plate  and  rose,  sighing, 
and  went  at  once  to  his  study.  The  lamp  was  lighted, 
and  cast  a  circle  of  light  over  his  table  and  the  pipes 
and  books  and  papers  that  littered  it ;  and  there  was 
a  smaller  circle  of  light  upon  the  ceiling  that  seemed  to 
be  flaring  and  smoking.  The  corners  of  the  room  and 
the  ceiling  beyond  that  small  circle  were  enveloped  in 
a  soft,  green  gloom. 

The  doctor  glanced  about,  at  the  piles  of  books  that 
cumbered  the  chairs,  and  at  other  piles  that  showed 
dimly  in  the  corners,  in  front  of  the  bookcases,  upon 
everything  that  would  hold  books.  It  was  plainly  a 
man's  room.  That  must  have  been  evident,  upon  sight, 
to  any  woman,  and  to  any  man,  ordinarily  observant 
and  of  average  intelligence.  But  it  suited  the  doctor, 
and  in  its  apparent  disorder  there  was  the  essence  of 
order.  He  knew  where  everything  was;  where  to  lay 
his  finger  on  any  book  that  he  wanted.  He  had  said 
just  that  to  his  housekeeper,  and  given  orders  that  they 
were,  on  no  account,  to  be  disturbed. 

"  Yes,"  she  had  replied,  with  a  sniff  of  disgust,  "  I 
guess  that  ain't  so  hard  to  know  where  everything  is. 
I  know  that,  myself.  It's  on  the  floor." 

Whereat  the  doctor  had  given  one  of  his  great  laughs. 
But  his  books  were  not  disturbed. 

He  settled  himself  in  a  great  leather-covered  easy- 
chair  by  the  table,  got  his  feet  up  on  another  chair, — 

148 


OLD   HARBOR 


he  was  never  comfortable  until  he  had  got  his  knees 
straight,  —  took  up  a  big,  long-stemmed  meerschaum 
pipe,  and  filled  it  from  a  yellow  earthenware  jar.  Then 
he  lighted  it,  sighed,  and  began  looking  over  his 
medical  papers  and  enveloping  himself  in  a  cloud  of 
smoke. 

At  exactly  half-past  eight  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
door.  The  doctor  grunted,  and  his  housekeeper  came 
in,  bearing  a  bottle  of  beer  and  a  glass.  To  her,  the 
doctor's  head  appeared  above  the  back  of  the  chair, 
surrounded  by  a  green  aureole  of  smoke.  That  was 
quite  usual ;  and  so  was  her  remark.  She  always  said 
the  same  thing. 

"Here's  your  beer,  doctor.  Mercy!  How  smoky 
it  isl"  It  was.  The  corners  of  the  room  could  not  be 
seen  at  all.  "I  should  think  you'd  die!" 

"Shall,  in  time,"  growled  the  doctor.  "Not  im 
mortal.  But  I'll  manage  to  stand  it  for  a  while." 

She  set  the  beer  and  the  glass  by  the  doctor's  hand. 
"Well,  if  you  can  stand  it,  /  can't." 

"  Don't  have  to,"  growled  the  doctor  again.  "  Don't 
have  to.  Thank  you.  Good-night." 

"Good-night,"  said  the  housekeeper;  and  the  door 
closed  softly  behind  her.  She  was  not  resentful  of  such 
shortness,  any  more  than  the  Polar  Bear  was  of  the 
slapping  of  the  reins,  or  of  the  doctor's  absent-minded 
profanity.  Indeed,  she  understood  such  shortness  of 
speech  very  well.  She  was  apt  to  be  short  of  speech, 
herself.  She  thought  better  of  the  doctor  for  it. 

149 


OLD   HARBOR 


When  the  housekeeper  had  gone,  the  doctor  laid 
down  his  medical  journals  with  evident  relief. 

"There,  damn  it,  that's  that,"  he  said.  And  he 
reached  over  to  a  pile  of  books  that  were  bound  in  full 
calf,  and  that  showed  signs  of  frequent  use.  "What, 
to-night?"  His  hand  hovered  over  the  pile  of  books, 
while  he  read  over  the  legends  on  the  backs.  Then  he 
swooped  for  one  of  them.  "'Merry  Wives'  hits  me, 
to-night.  'Merry  Wives'!"  And  he  chuckled  to  him 
self,  as  he  got  the  heavy  book  into  his  lap,  and 
opened  it. 

Then  he  opened  his  beer;  and  having  got  it  open, 
he  filled  his  pipe  afresh  and  lighted  it.  Then,  with  a 
comfortable  snuggle  into  his  chair,  he  settled  himself 
to  read. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

COLONEL  CATHERWOOD  sat  at  his  desk  in  the  little 
back  room  that  served  him  for  a  private  office.  It  was 
a  pleasant  room,  a  corner  room,  with  windows  giving 
him  a  view  of  the  harbor,  where  the  ship  "  Susan"  lay 
quietly  at  anchor ;  and  a  view  down  the  harbor  towards 
its  mouth,  at  which  the  "Susan"  had  come  in,  some 
weeks  before,  and  out  of  which  she  would  go  into  the 
broad  Atlantic,  if  the  colonel  had  his  way,  in  another 
week.  The  colonel  usually  had  his  way.  It  was  a  quiet 
way,  with  no  fuss  about  it,  but  he  usually  got  it. 

Colonel  Catherwood  did  not  seem  to  be  very  busy. 
He  had  a  newspaper  open  before  him,  and  would  have 
appeared,  to  the  casual  observer,  to  be  reading  it.  The 
aforesaid  casual  observer  might  have  wondered  why 
the  colonel  was  reading  his  paper  at  his  desk  instead 
of  at  the  window,  out  of  which  he  could  glance,  now 
and  then,  at  the  scene  which  he  loved.  There  was 
a  reason ;  for,  half  concealed  by  the  newspaper,  was  a 
pad  of  paper  on  which  he  wrote.  Sometimes  he  wrote 
only  a  few  words,  and  again  he  wrote,  without  stop 
ping,  until  the  sheet  was  full.  Then  he  would  tear  off 
the  filled  sheet  and  put  it  on  the  top  of  a  growing  pile 
in  the  drawer  of  the  desk.  The  colonel  was  writing  his 
memoirs  of  the  war ;  with  very  little  of  himself  in  them 

151 


OLD    HARBOR 


and  much  of  the  men  he  had  known  and  the  times  of 
which  he  had  been  a  part.  He  was  very  much  ashamed 
of  writing  it,  but  he  could  not  help  it,  and  he  was  ter 
ribly  afraid  of  being  found  out. 

A  step  sounded  at  the  door.  It  was  the  slow  step  of 
the  old  clerk,  whose  hand  fumbled  with  the  latch.  But 
if  Heywood  was  deaf,  he  was  not  blind.  Hurriedly, 
the  colonel  covered  his  writing  with  the  newspaper 
and  began  to  read  anywhere.  Heywood  entered,  as 
quietly  and  as  deliberately  as  he  did  everything,  and 
smiled  to  see  the  colonel  apparently  reading  an  ad 
vertisement  of  a  popular  brand  of  whiskey.  The  colonel 
looked  up,  expectantly,  but  he  did  not  speak.  It  would 
have  been  a  wasted  effort. 

Heywood  answered  the  look.  "  You  told  me  to  find 
a  keeper  for  the  'Susan,'"  he  said,  speaking  very 
softly,  as  was  his  custom.  "  I  can't  find  any.  All  our 
good  men  are  either  at  work  or  away." 

"H'm,"  sighed  the  colonel.  "Where's  Jack,  Hey 
wood?"  he  shouted. 

"  Jack  ?  "  asked  Heywood.  "  He 's  gone  down  to  look 
over  the  shipyard."  He  smiled.  "He  seems  to  have 
the  same  ideas  that  we  used  to  have." 

Colonel  Catherwood  nodded.  He  would  have  made 
some  remark  about  those  old  times,  when  Heywood 
was  not  deaf  and  they  both  had  ideas  and  the  enthu 
siasm  to  carry  them  out,  if  it  had  not  been  necessary 
to  shout  it.  Shouting  such  remarks  seemed  to  take 
them  out  of  their  class.  Heywood  would  understand. 

152 


OLD    HARBOR 


Heywood  did  understand;   and  he  stood  and  waited 
until  the  colonel  should  speak. 

"  H'm,"  sighed  the  colonel,  again.  It  was  not  prob 
able  that  Jack  knew  anything  of  the  duties  of  a  ship- 
keeper,  anyway,  although  they  were  not  hard  to  learn. 
"Be  on  the  lookout,  Heywood,  for  a  keeper  for  the 
'Susan,'"  he  said,  at  last,  "and  I  '11  see  Jack  when 
he  comes  in.  We  must  have  somebody." 

Heywood  nodded.  "I  think  we  must,"  he  replied. 
"  There  were  a  number  of  things  missing  from  her  this 
morning.  I  went  out,  myself,  to  see.  I  'd  go,  but  that 
I  could  n't  hear  anything."  He  smiled.  His  deafness 
was  no  affliction  to  Heywood.  He  lived  in  a  world  of 
his  own. 

"No,"  shouted  the  colonel.  "You  couldn't  hear, 
and  we  want  you  in  the  office." 

Neither  of  them  had  heard  the  outer  door  open  and 
close.  Heywood  could  not  have  heard  if  it  had  been 
slammed,  —  he  could  have  felt  it, — but  it  had  been 
closed  very  softly. 

"Good-morning,"  said  a  gentle  voice.  Eben  stood 
in  the  doorway,  behind  Heywood.  "I  heard  you 
talking  —  " 

Colonel  Catherwood  had  already  risen.  "  Not  diffi 
cult,  eh,  Eben  ?  "  he  asked,  holding  out  his  hand.  "  How 
far  off  did  you  hear  us  first?" 

Eben  smiled  quickly  and  took  the  colonel's  hand. 
He  made  no  reply. 

"It  was   a  confidential   conversation,   you   know, 
153 


OLD   HARBOR 


Eben,"  continued  the  colonel,  smiling.  "Well,  I'm 
glad  to  see  you  down  here.  You're  getting  well  fast." 

Eben  nodded  a  "good-morning"  to  Heywood  and 
shook  hands  with  him.  In  Heywood's  eyes  he  saw  re 
collection  of  the  old  days,  before  the  flood,  when  — 

He  turned  away.  "I'm  well  enough,  Frank,"  he 
said;  "well  enough  to  act  as  shipkeeper  for  you."  He 
spoke  hurriedly,  as  though  to  get  the  words  out  before 
they  changed  their  minds  and  refused  to  come. 

There  was  surprise  in  Colonel  Catherwood's  face; 
surprise  and  doubt.  Eben  spoke  again,  more  hurriedly 
than  before. 

"I  know  the  duties  very  well,"  he  said,  "such  as 
they  are.  I  can  do  it  perfectly  well,  Frank,  I  give  you 
my  word.  Many  a  day  and  night  I've  spent  in  doing 
just  that."  His  voice  had  been  almost  pleading,  but 
with  the  last  words,  it  changed  to  bitterness.  Many  a 
day  and  night  — 

"  I  should  really  be  glad  if  you  would  let  me,"  con 
tinued  Eben.  His  look  dropped  and  shifted  until, 
finally,  he  looked  out  of  the  window  and  saw  the 
"  Susan  "  herself .  "  It 's  a  long  story,  Frank.  Perhaps, 
some  time," 

"Whenever  you  like,  Eben,  whenever  you  like," 
returned  the  colonel.  "As  for  going  to  the  ship, — 
there  are  no  duties,  to  speak  of,  —  that  shall  be  just 
as  you  like,  too.  If  you  really  want  to  go,  I'll  take  you 
out." 

Although  Eben  protested  that  it  was  not  necessary, 
154 


OLD    HARBOR 


that  he  could  go  quite  well  by  himself,  the  colonel 
insisted  upon  rowing  him  out,  in  his  own  boat. 

"The  dinghy's  there,"  said  the  colonel,  "or  it  was 
there,  yesterday.  Do  you  think  you  can  manage  it?" 

Eben  smiled,  a  smile  of  amusement.  "I've  done  it 
times  enough  to  know  how." 

Colonel  Catherwood  could  not  help  a  feeling  of  some 
astonishment  at  the  way  Eben  went  up  the  side  of  the 
"Susan."  It  offered,  one  would  think,  no  foothold  to 
anything  but  a  cat  and  a  sailor.  Eben  showed  prac 
ticed  skill;  he  showed  his  weakness,  too,  for  he  was 
not  yet  strong.  But,  notwithstanding  his  evident  weak 
ness,  he  got  up  the  side  of  the  "Susan"  much  more 
quickly  than  the  colonel  could  have  managed  it.  In 
deed,  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  colonel  would  have 
been  willing  to  try  it  at  all  without  a  Jacob's  ladder  or, 
at  least,  a  knotted  rope.  When  he  was  up,  he  stood 
nonchalantly  on  the  rail,  holding  to  nothing  at  all,  and 
waved  his  hand.  The  colonel  was  very  sure  he  would 
never  have  done  that ;  but  Eben  stood  there  without 
a  thought  of  danger,  apparently,  and  as  if  he  was  used 
to  it. 

"I'm  all  right,  Frank,"  he  said  gently.  "I'll  be 
ashore  in  time  to  go  up  with  you.  Good-by." 

"  Good-by,  Eben,"  returned  the  colonel.  "  You  went 
up  the  side  as  if  you  knew  how." 

Eben  smiled.  "  I  ought  to,"  he  murmured.  "  I  ought 
to."  He  turned  and  dropped  lightly  to  the  deck.  It 
seemed  that  the  colonel  had  not  heard  his  last  mur- 

155 


OLD    HARBOR 


mured  remark,  for  he  was  rowing  back  to  shore 
again. 

Eben  stood  at  the  rail  and  watched  the  colonel  make 
his  landing,  neatly,  with  a  sweep  of  one  oar;  saw  him 
step  out,  and,  almost  in  the  same  motion,  seize  his  boat 
by  the  bow  and  draw  it  high  on  the  stage  with  one  hand. 
There  was  more  of  knack  than  of  strength  displayed, 
although  Colonel  Catherwood  had  plenty  of  strength. 
Eben  sighed  as  the  colonel  went  up  the  plank,  with  his 
long,  light  stride,  and  disappeared. 

"  I  wish  "  —  he  began ;  but  the  wish  was  left  uncom 
pleted.  He  sighed  again  and  turned  to  the  ship.  "I 
wonder  if  everything  on  the  ' Susan'  is  as  it  used  to  be. 
But  of  course  it  is  n't.  Of  course  it  is  n't." 

He  began  pacing  slowly  back  and  forth  on  the  deck, 
his  head  sunken  on  his  breast,  his  eyes  on  the  deck  be 
fore  his  feet.  Gradually  and  insensibly  his  beat  length 
ened  until  it  was  bounded  by  the  quarter-deck,  about 
shoulder  high,  and  by  the  forecastle.  He  stopped  his 
slow  pacing  and  looked  over  the  quarter-deck;  then 
started  towards  the  steps  leading  to  it.  He  stopped 
again,  suddenly. 

"No,"  he  muttered.  "In  at  the  hawse  hole.  That's 
the  way;  my  way."  He  walked  to  the  forecastle,  his 
head  lifted,  and  tried  the  door.  It  opened  readily,  at 
which  Eben  did  not  seem  surprised.  He  swung  himself 
down. 

It  was  tolerably  clean  in  there ;  as  clean  as  could  be 
expected.  A  casual  observer  might  have  been  surprised 

156 


OLD  HARBOR 


to  see  Eben  tumble  into  a  bunk.  He  seemed  to  be  partic 
ular  as  to  the  bunk.  It  was  an  uninviting  bunk,  away 
up  in  the  eyes  of  the  ship.  The  casual  observer  might 
have  wondered  at  his  choice,  for  one  would  think  that 
the  particular  bunk  he  had  chosen  would  get  all  the 
motion  there  was  and  all  the  noise  there  was  of 
tumbling  seas  and  spray  and  the  ocean  under  her  fore 
foot.  Not  that  there  is  much  to  choose  among  bunks 
in  a  forecastle ;  but  this  bunk  seemed  the  most  unde 
sirable  of  all. 

If  there  had  been  a  casual  observer  to  make  com 
ments  or  to  think  them,  it  is  to  be  supposed  that  Eben 
would  have  done  none  of  the  things  he  did  do.  If  he 
had  had  to  bear  with  such  a  curious  and  meddlesome 
and  exasperating  person,  he  would  have  stood  by  his 
side  and  answered  the  questions  that  he  could  not  avoid 
answering  in  his  gentle  voice  and  with  his  irreproach 
able  manner,  instead  of  tumbling  into  his  bunk,  —  he 
had  the  air  of  appropriating  it,  as  if  it  had  once  belonged 
to  him,  —  and  tumbling  out  again,  suddenly,  as  if  he 
had  heard  a  hoarse  voice  bellowing  down  the  compan- 
ionway  for  all  hands  to  shorten  sail.  It  was  a  wild  night 
and  getting  worse;  and,  as  Eben  tumbled  out,  rubbing 
the  sleep  from  his  eyes,  he  staggered.  For  the  ship's 
bows  rose  high  on  a  wave,  paused  an  instant,  and  then 
she  raced  down  the  slope,  with  a  great  roaring  and 
rumbling  under  her  forefoot  and  the  noise  of  many 
waters.  She  checked  and  lifted,  the  water  hissing  now; 
then  a  sea  slapped  up  against  the  outer  wall  of  that 

157 


OLD   HARBOR 


forecastle  —  not  a  foot  away  —  with  a  noise  like  the 
report  of  a  cannon.  Eben  waited  for  what  seemed  to 
him  a  full  minute.  Then  he  heard  the  patter  and  crash 
and  hiss  of  water  falling  on  the  deck  above  his  head 
and  running  off  in  rivers  to  the  scuppers.  He  sprang 
quickly  up  the  ladder. 

He  came  out,  not  into  the  dark  turmoil  of  wind  and 
sea  and  rain,  but  upon  a  sunny  deck  that  was  as  quiet  as 
though  it  were  on  shore.  He  smiled  to  himself  and  sighed. 

"  It  does  n't  seem  possible,"  he  muttered ;  "  it  does  n't 
seem  possible.  It  was  very  real  —  but  I  'm  glad  it 's  over 
—  those  nights.  Those  nights!  Well,"  —  he  glanced 
aloft,  —  "I  might  as  well  do  my  part  in  taking  in  the 
topsails,  if  I  can.  But  I'm  glad  I  don't  have  to  go  on 
the  royal  yard.  I  should  probably  fall  off,  if  I  got  there 
at  all.  I  doubt  if  I  have  the  strength." 

He  mounted  the  rigging,  quickly  at  first,  then  more 
and  more  slowly,  until  he  reached  the  upper  topsail 
yard.  It  was  lowered,  of  course,  for  which  Eben  may 
have  been  grateful.  He  seemed  pretty  thoroughly  ex 
hausted,  and  stood  there,  holding  on  with  both  hands, 
to  gather  strength.  It  occurred  to  him,  as  he  stood  there, 
that  he  was  in  full  view  of  Colonel  Catherwood's  office 
window;  that  the  colonel  might  even  be  watching  him, 
not  without  some  curiosity ;  that  there  were  other  eyes 
than  the  colonel's  —  it  might  be  just  cause  for  wonder 
that  a  sane  man  should  be  playing  about  the  ship  like 
a  boy,  running  up  and  down  the  rigging,  diving  out  of 
the  forecastle.  Eben  came  down,  slowly. 

158 


OLD    HARBOR 


As  soon  as  he  felt  the  deck  under  his  feet,  he  turned, 
without  hesitation,  and  walked  to  the  quarter-deck, 
picked  a  belaying-pin  from  the  rail,  and  began  a  reso 
lute  speech  to  an  imaginary  crew.  It  was  more  than 
resolute,  it  was  belligerent ;  and  he  cursed  that  phantom 
crew  well.  There  was  nothing  gentle  about  it.  You 
would  never  have  imagined  that  it  was  Eben  Joyce  who 
was  speaking.  Suddenly  he  stopped  and  threw  down 
the  belaying-pin  and  shuddered. 

"Oh,  horrible!"  he  said.  "Horrid!  How  could  I 
ever  have  done  it?" 

He  shook  his  shoulders  as  though  he  would  shake 
off  the  dream  that  possessed  him,  —  it  seemed  more 
than  a  dream,  — and  he  left  the  quarter-deck  and  found 
a  place  under  the  rail  that  was  sheltered  and  sunny, 
and  there  he  curled  himself  up.  The  gentle  breeze,  that 
was  scarcely  enough  to  keep  the  "Susan's"  anchor 
chain  taut,  was  sharp  and  cold. 

Colonel  Catherwood  had  not  been  watching  Eben; 
he  was  busy  with  his  writing  and  very  much  interested 
in  it.  He  had  no  time,  then,  to  be  looking  out  of  win 
dows  ;  but  there  were  other  eyes  than  the  colonel's  that 
were  interested  in  that  ship.  An  old  dory,  that  put  out 
from  the  shore  just  as  the  colonel  disappeared  into  his 
office,  seemed  to  be  bound  nowhere  in  particular,  but 
her  erratic  course  carried  her  continually  nearer  to  the 
"Susan."  The  man  in  the  dory  may  have  been  Mike 
Loughery  or  he  may  not;  but  after  Eben  appeared 
on  the  foremast  of  the  ship,  the  course  of  the  d°ry 

159 


OLD  HARBOR 


was  no  longer  erratic.    It  made   straight  across    the 
harbor. 

At  the  change  of  course,  a  figure  which  had  been 
crouched  on  its  knees  at  a  window  of  an  old  deserted, 
tumble-down  house,  at  the  head  of  one  of  the  wharves, 
half  rose.  It  was  an  odd,  misshapen  figure,  with  a  big 
head  and  wobbly  legs  and  long,  strong  arms  that  waved 
about,  with  no  purpose,  and  it  gave  a  clattering  laugh 
that  echoed  across  the  water.  The  man  in  the  dory 
stopped  rowing,  at  the  sound  of  it,  and  he  looked  sharply 
along  the  stretch  of  shore  that  he  had  just  left ;  but 
he  saw  nothing  of  Clanky  Beg.  It  was  difficult  to  see 
Clanky  when  he  did  not  wish  to  be  seen,  for  he  was 
getting  the  game  of  Indian  down  to  a  fine  art.  It  was 
a  one-sided  game,  with  but  one  boy  playing  it.  He  had 
been  after  Mike  all  the  morning.  He  was  after  Mike 
every  day.  Indeed,  it  was  his  first  interest  in  life,  after 
Joe  and  Mrs.  Loughery. 

He  had  left  Joe  Loughery  in  the  pine  woods  near  the 
hut  that  he  had  made.  It  was  not  much  of  a  hut.  It 
could  n't  be,  with  Clanky  for  its  builder.  It  did  not 
keep  the  air  out,  not  to  speak  of  the  wind,  and  it  was 
all  the  better  for  that ;  but  the  roof  was  pretty  tight,  and 
Clanky  had  thatched  it  afresh  with  spruce  boughs.  It 
would  be  warmer  when  snow  came.  Joe  slept  there, 
in  the  hut,  with  the  night  winds  blowing  across  his  face ; 
and  in  the  day-time,  rain  or  shine,  he  was  out  of  doors, 
well  wrapped  up,  to  be  sure,  and  protected  against  the 
weather. 

160 


OLD   HARBOR 


Joe  was  wonderfully  better,  already.  That  fact  made 
Clanky  very  happy.  He  had  been  to  Mrs.  Loughery's 
and  done  his  chores,  and  had  brought  Joe  a  breakfast 
of  his  mother's  cooking.  He  always  did  that;  it  was 
scarcely  more  than  a  step,  and  Joe's  breakfast  had  n't 
time  to  get  cold  as  Clanky  ran  over  with  the  basket. 
He  had  got  Joe  settled  at  the  roots  of  a  big  pine,  where 
the  sunshine  lay  warm  and  where  he  was  sheltered  from 
the  wind,  with  a  blanket  under  him  and  another  over 
his  knees.  Then  he  had  seated  himself  at  the  foot  of  a 
neighboring  pine,  and  he  had  looked  at  Joe  with  dumb 
dog-love  shining  from  his  eyes.  Joe  was  happy,  too, 
and  he  smiled  at  Clanky  without  speaking.  They  did 
not  do  much  talking,  out  there  among  the  pines.  After 
a  while,  Clanky  became  restless  and  got  up. 

Joe  laughed;  but  he  did  not  cough.  "What  is  it, 
Clanky?"  he  asked.  "Is  mother  coming?" 

"Mother  Loughery  *s  coming,"  replied  Clanky. 
"Good-by,  Joe." 

"  Good-by,  Clanky,"  said  Joe.  "  Don't  wait,  if  you 
want  to  go." 

So  Clanky  had  gone ;  had  vanished  among  the  pines, 
without  a  sound,  as  Mrs.  Loughery  appeared. 

She  smiled  at  Joe,  sitting  there  in  the  sunshine. 
"How's  my  Joe,  the  morn?"  she  asked. 

"  Fine,  mother,  fine.  What  do  you  suppose  Clanky 's 
up  to,  slipping  away  just  as  you  are  coming?" 

The  tears  came  into  Mrs.  Loughery's  eyes.  "The 
dear  boy !"  she  said.  "  The  dear  boy !  Let  him  go,  an' 

161 


OLD   HARBOR 


he  wants,  poor  lad.  'T  is  small  pleasure  we  can  give 
him.  He's  as  good  as  my  own,  Joe;  better  than  some, 
better  than  some,  —  but  not  you,  Joe." 

"I  know,"  said  Joe. 

Clanky  had  made  a  wide  detour,  had  come  to  the 
edge  of  the  pine  woods  where  he  had  a  good  view  of  the 
Lougherys',  and  had  waited  for  Mike  to  appear.  Mike 
was  out  until  all  hours  of  the  night,  and  he  slept  late. 
But  Mike  had  come  out,  finally,  scowling,  and  had 
made  his  way  across  the  fields;  he  always  did  that. 
Clanky  followed ;  he  always  did  that,  but  Mike  knew 
nothing  of  it. 

That  accounted  sufficiently  for  Clanky's  hiding  and 
for  his  laugh ;  for  he  believed  that  he  had  marked  Mike 
down,  at  last.  Many  a  man  with  more  sense  would 
have  come  to  the  same  conclusion,  and  would  not  have 
done  his  work  so  well.  Clanky  knew  exactly  what  he 
would  do  next;  by  instinct,  perhaps,  —  that  innate  cun 
ning  which,  I  am  led  to  believe,  is  in  all  wild  things. 

He  appeared,  suddenly,  before  Hey  wood.  Heywood 
was  not  surprised.  He  smiled  kindly  at  Clanky  and, 
although  he  did  not  hear  a  word  of  Clanky's  question, 
he  surmised  what  it  was.  He  pointed,  with  his  pen,  to 
the  door  of  the  colonel's  private  office.  Clanky  thanked 
him  and  walked  in  at  the  door. 

He  found  the  colonel  still  busily  writing.  It  seemed 
to  awaken  memories.  No  one  could  predict  the  kind 
of  thing  that  would  stick  in  that  poor  clouded  mind. 
He  laughed  his  harsh  laugh. 

162 


OLD   HARBOR 


The  colonel  started.  "Don't  do  that,  Clanky,"  he 
said ;  "  not  in  here,  anyway." 

"All  right,  then,  I  won't."  He  pointed  to  the  pad. 
"William  does  that." 

The  colonel  smiled  quickly.  "  Ah,  yes,  Clanky.  But 
he  does  it  much  better  than  I  can." 

"No,"  replied  Clanky,  earnestly;  "no.  He  does  it 
just  the  same:  some  words,  till  the  paper's  all  written 
up,  then  he  tears  it  off  and  puts  it  in  a  drawer.  It 's  just 
the  same.  I've  seen  him  do  it."  He  took  up  the  pad 
and  looked  at  it,  critically.  "This  looks  prettier  than 
his  —  prettier  marks.  I  can't  read  much,"  he  added. 
"The  teacher  said  I  could  n't  learn." 

"  Probably  the  teacher  knew,"  said  the  colonel ;  "  but 
perhaps  she  did  n't.  It  is  n't  a  question  of  my  making 
prettier  marks  than  William  makes,  Clanky.  It 's  what 
the  marks  mean  — 

Clanky  was  tapping  the  paper  with  his  finger.  "Is 
this  true?"  he  asked. 

"As  nearly  true  as  I  can  recollect,"  the  colonel  an 
swered.  "  Does  that  make  it  any  the  better,  I  wonder  ? 
Or  is  it  better  to  write  fairy  stories  ?  But  what  did  you 
want  to  see  me  for,  Clanky?" 

Clanky,  at  this  attempt  to  switch  him  off,  made  a  last 
effort  to  establish  the  connection  that  he  felt,  vaguely. 
"  A  man  that  tells  the  truth  is  good,  and  a  man  that  tells 
lies  is  wicked." 

The  colonel  laughed.  "Harriet's  opinion  in  a  nut 
shell.  Poor  William!" 

163 


OLD  HARBOR 


"Yes,"  said  Clanky,  "and  Mike  —  : 

The  colonel  straightened  up  and  listened;  and 
Clanky,  as  clearly  as  he  was  able,  asked  to  be  allowed  to 
act  as  keeper  for  the  ship  "  Susan  "  at  night.  He  would 
like  to  begin  that  night.  The  colonel,  after  some  hesita 
tion,  consented.  It  would,  at  least,  help  Mrs.  Loughery 
out  a  little.  Clanky  was  delighted  when  Colonel  Cather- 
wood  went  into  the  outer  office  with  him  and  said  a  few 
words  to  Heywood  —  a  few  words  that  might  have  been 
heard  a  block  away,  if  the  street  door  had  been  open. 
Clanky  managed  to  restrain  himself  until  he  was  well 
away  from  the  office.  Then  the  colonel  heard  his  laugh 
come  clattering  down  the  street. 

Colonel  Catherwood  sighed  and  turned  to  Hey  wood. 
"  Has  n't  Jack  been  back  yet  ? " 

Heywood  shook  his  head. 

"I  think  I'll  go  and  look  him  up."  And  the  colonel 
set  out  for  the  shipyard. 

The  shipyard  was  about  half  a  mile  nearer  the  mouth 
of  the  harbor ;  a  deserted  spot,  except  for  the  occasional 
small  boy,  who  played  there  to  his  heart's  very  great 
content  and  climbed  about  the  ancient  scaffolding,  — 
the  remains  of  it  still  stood,  after  thirty  years  of  disuse, 
—  climbed  about  it,  in  momentary  danger  of  break 
ing  his  neck.  But  what  does  the  small  boy  care  about 
the  danger  of  breaking  his  neck?  He  has  names  for 
the  boy  who  thinks  of  it  at  all,  and  the  danger  seems 
very  remote.  The  place  seemed  especially  adapted  to 
boys'  games,  and  there  were  excellent  hiding-places 

164 


OLD    HARBOR 


to  be  found  in  the  grass  that  grew  rank  and  tall,  and 
behind  the  few  logs  that  lay  concealed  in  it ;  or  behind 
the  old  blacksmith  shop  or  the  remains  of  the  shed 
where  the  planks  had  been  steamed  —  or,  in  the  shed, 
a  boy  might  conceal  himself  successfully  behind  the 
rusty  boiler.  The  boiler  might  even  serve  to  conceal  a 
person  larger  than  a  boy.  Half-a-dozen  times  in  a  sum 
mer,  some  boy,  more  enterprising  than  the  rest,  gath 
ered  together  a  gang  of  boys,  and  the  gang  played  base 
ball.  The  shipyard  was  an  excellent  place  for  baseball ; 
but  baseball  took  nearly  all  the  boys  in  Old  Harbor, 
and  it  was  not  easy  to  find  boys  in  Old  Harbor.  Old 
Harbor  seemed,  rather,  to  adapt  itself  to  girls,  and  to 
women  of  all  ages,  and  to  elderly  men.  It  had  become 
a  good  place  to  retire  to  and  to  die  in.  But  the  men, 
having  retired  to  Old  Harbor,  forgot  to  die. 

Colonel  Catherwood  had  some  difficulty  in  finding 
Jack.  At  last  he  saw  him,  seated  on  a  log  in  the  shadow 
of  the  blacksmith  shop,  busily  engaged  upon  something 
that  lay  in  his  lap ;  so  busily  engaged  and  so  interested 
that  he  did  not  hear  the  step  approaching.  The  colonel 
looked  down  at  the  thing  that  lay  in  his  lap,  and  gave  a 
cry  of  surprise  and  delight.  All  that  he  had  meant  to 
say  to  Jack  —  all  that  he  had  come  there  for  —  slipped 
from  his  mind. 

"Why,  Jack!"  he  cried.  "That's  good.  That's 
beautiful." 

Jack  started  and  flushed  with  pleasure.  He  held  out 
his  sketch-book  for  his  father  to  see. 

165 


OLD   HARBOR 


"  Do  you  really  think  so,  dad  ?"  he  said. 

It  was  only  a  pencil  sketch  of  the  decrepit  old  scaffold 
ing  and  the  bulkhead  and  the  harbor  beyond,  with  a 
hint  of  the  farther  shore;  and,  in  the  left  foreground, 
the  remains  of  the  old  steaming-shed.  But  it  was  beauti 
fully  and  delicately  done,  and  the  whole  picture  seemed 
to  shine  with  light. 

"The  subject  appealed  to  me,"  continued  Jack, 
simply,  "and  I  just  sat  down  and  did  it.  I  am  afraid 
that  I  forgot  what  I  had  come  for."  He  laughed  shame 
facedly. 

"That  is  of  no  consequence,"  returned  the  colonel. 
And  he  stood  looking  at  the  sketch  and  saying  nothing, 
for  a  long  time. 

"You  like  this  sort  of  thing,  Jack?"  he  asked,  at 
last.  Pride  and  love,  which  he  made  an  unsuccessful 
effort  to  conceal,  shone  from  the  colonel's  eyes;  but 
there  was  nothing  in  his  manner,  as  he  asked  the  ques 
tion,  to  indicate  either  approval  or  disapproval.  Jack 
was  not  looking  at  him. 

"I  love  it,  dad,"  Jack  answered;   "I  love  it." 

"That  is  food  for  thought,"  said  the  colonel,  slowly; 
"food  for  thought."  He  seated  himself  beside  Jack, 
on  the  log,  still  holding  the  sketch-book.  He  did  not 
speak  further,  and  father  and  son  sat  there  in  silence, 
looking  out,  each  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IT  was  a  bright,  sunny  morning  in  early  December, 
and  everybody  rejoiced  accordingly;  everybody,  that 
is,  except  MacLean,  for  it  bade  fair  to  be  a  dull  day 
in  the  drug  business.  He  had  not  sold  a  single  drug 
that  morning,  although  he  had  been  at  his  shop  since 
daylight.  He  had  swept  out  and  dusted.  He  had  not 
swept  in  the  dark  corners;  MacLean's  eyes  were  get 
ting  to  be  troublesome  and  glasses  cost  a  deal,  though 
he  feared  that  he  would  have  to  come  to  them  in  time. 
There  was  a  corner  or  two  —  perhaps  more  —  on  his 
cases  and  on  his  shelves  that  showed  evidence  of 
neglect,  probably  for  the  same  reason.  But  nobody 
looked  at  the  corners,  anyway ;  or  so  MacLean  thought. 

When  he  had  swept  and  dusted,  he  stood  at  his  shop 
door  for  a  long  time,  with  his  nose  almost  flattened 
against  the  glass,  looking  out.  Nobody  passed  near 
enough  for  him  to  call  him  in  and  exchange  a  bit  of 
gossip  —  two  bits  of  gossip  that  were  very  interest 
ing.  The  men  who  did  pass  were  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  street.  It  was  curious  that  it  should  have  hap 
pened  so.  When  he  had  been  standing  there  for  over  an 
hour,  he  saw  somebody  actually  approaching  on  the 
same  side  of  the  street.  MacLean  watched,  with  an 
interest  that  was  almost  frantic.  It  had  been  impossible 

167 


OLD    HARBOR 


to  see  clearly  who  it  was,  for  MacLean's  windows 
partly  hid  and  distorted  the  figure  until  it  was  almost 
exactly  opposite  his  door.  He  had  been  aware  of  a  very 
nimble  and  very  sweet  whistling ;  the  whistling  of  a  jig 
tune  so  enticing  that  it  was  all  that  MacLean  could  do 
to  keep  his  feet  quietly  on  the  floor.  Now,  the  figure 
developed  into  that  of  a  little  colored  boy,  who  was 
shuffling  and  dancing,  anything  but  walking,  down 
the  street  in  time  to  his  whistling.  MacLean's  expres 
sion  changed  to  one  of  disgust.  The  little  colored  boy 
slowly  shuffled  up  the  steps,  opened  the  door,  MacLean 
making  way  for  him,  and  shuffled  in,  his  shuffling 
coming  to  an  end  with  a  very  low  bow. 

"Mornin',"  he  said. 

"  Gude-morning,"  said  MacLean,  with  an  awkward 
kick  of  his  leg.  Constance  Catherwood  should  have 
seen  it,  although  she  would  have  had  hard  work  not 
to  laugh  outright.  The  little  colored  boy  snickered. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  the  day?"  asked  MacLean, 
ill-naturedly.  He  had  waited  in  vain  for  the  boy  to 
state  his  errand.  "Will  it  be  pheesic?" 

"  Nor,  suh,"  answered  the  boy.  "  Whut  I  want  physic 
fo'?" 

"  For  an  ill  pairson,"  snapped  MacLean.  "  Pheesic 's 
gude  for  ill  pairsons,  naething  else.  It  '11  be  candy, 
then,  I  mak'  na  doubt." 

"Yep,"  said  the  boy.  "Seventeen  sticks.  That 
kind."  He  laid  his  finger  on  one  of  the  jars  that  adorned 
MacLean's  counter. 

168 


OLD  HARBOR 


"Seven-teen  sticks!"  exclaimed  MacLean,  in  as 
tonishment.  "Ye '11  need  pheesic  after  a'  that." 

The  boy  laughed  gayly,  after  the  manner  of  colored 
boys.  "  Nor,  suh,  I  won't,"  he  said ;  and  he  began  to 
search  his  pockets.  He  brought  forth  a  handful  of  pen 
nies  and  slowly  counted  them  out  upon  the  counter. 
There  were  but  eleven.  "Hoi'  you'  bosses,"  he  said. 
"I  got  it  yere,  some'eres." 

From  another  pocket  he  brought  the  remaining  six 
pennies. 

"Seventeen,"  he  said  triumphantly.  "Knowed  I 
had  'em.  There!  That  please  yo' ?" 

And,  beginning  his  whistling  again,  he  shuffled  out. 

MacLean  counted  the  pennies  carefully  into  the 
drawer.  "Seventeen  pennies!"  he  said,  with  a  laugh 
of  disgust,  as  he  shut  the  drawer.  "  Hap  I  '11  gie  them 
to  Mrs.  Lough ery  for  herbs.  She  should  be  by  soon  — 
and  by  means  in.  There's  her  Joe,"  he  muttered,  "do 
ing  wi'out  pheesic  an'  in  the  woods  an'  winter  coom. 
He'll  die,  that's  a'.  Pheesic!  Pheesic!  Naebody  wants 
pheesic." 

It  was  a  perverse  world.  MacLean  went  once  more 
to  his  door  and  flattened  his  nose  against  the  glass.  He 
did  not  have  long  to  wait,  this  time,  for  the  Polar  Bear 
came  ambling  down  the  street,  holding  back  on  the  sag 
ging  buggy.  He  drew  up,  without  apparent  guidance, 
at  MacLean's  door,  which  MacLean  hastened  to  open. 

" Gude-morning,  doctor,"  he  said;  " gude-morning. 
A  varra  fine  day,  doctor.  An'  won't  ye  come  in?" 

169 


OLD   HARBOR 


"Good-morning,  MacLean,"  growled  the  doctor. 
"  It  is  a  fine  day,  although  I  don't  see  how  you  can  know 
anything  about  it.  I've  no  doubt  you've  been  cooped 
up  in  your  stuffy  little  box  since  before  sunrise.  Yes, 
yes,  damn  it,  I'm  coming  in,"  he  added  impatiently, 
seeing  MacLean  about  to  renew  his  invitation.  "I 
need  time,  MacLean." 

"Ha,  ha!"  laughed  MacLean,  mirthlessly.  "An* 
ye '11  have  a'  the  time  ye  need,  doctor." 

"Of  course  I  will,"  growled  the  doctor  again.  "Of 
course  I  will."  He  was  in  the  doorway  by  that  time. 
He  almost  filled  it.  MacLean  obsequiously  shut  the 
door  behind  him.  Doctor  Olcott  sniffed  for  a  moment, 
suspiciously.  "Why  don't  you  air  out  your  shop, 
MacLean  ?  It  smells  like  a  farmhouse  in  the  spring. 
Your  damned  drugs  don't  help  it  any." 

MacLean's  imitation  of  good  nature  was  nearly  ex 
hausted.  "Do  ye  need  to  be  told  that  it's  December? 
It's  winter,  mon,  winter.  It  takes  a  deal  o'  coal  to  heat 
all  outdoors.  I  winna  undertake  it."  MacLean  kicked 
out  his  leg.  It  was  his  most  characteristic  gesture.  It 
meant  that  he  was  embarrassed  or  greatly  pleased  or 
greatly  exasperated. 

Doctor  Olcott  gave  a  great  rumbling  laugh.  "  That 's 
it,  MacLean.  Don't  be  picked  upon." 

MacLean  could  not  make  out  the  doctor's  meaning. 
"  Drugs !"  he  went  on.  "Drugs!  I  dinna  sell  any  drugs. 
The  people  winna  buy  pheesic." 

"They  know  a  thing  or  two,  eh,  MacLean?"  said 
170 


OLD    HARBOR 


the  doctor,  playfully.  "In  the  long  run,  they  know 
what's  not  good  for  them.  Eh,  MacLean  ?  But  we're 
not  so  sure  of  that,  either,  or  you  and  I  would  n't  have 
so  much  to  do." 

"  I  couldna  varra  weel  hae  less,"  grumbled  MacLean. 

The  doctor  laughed  again,  and  went  in  behind  the 
counter  and  helped  himself  to  what  he  wanted.  Then 
he  gave  MacLean  his  private  instructions  concerning 
a  prescription  that  he  had  left  with  Miss  Wetherbee 
that  morning.  MacLean  laughed,  knowingly.  The 
doctor  gave  him,  too,  his  private  instructions  about 
a  prescription  that  he  had  left  for  Miss  Hitty;  and 
MacLean  did  not  laugh.  The  grumbling  Scot  liked 
Miss  Hitty.  He  looked  rather  serious. 

"Hitty  Tilton'll  be  an  ill  woman,  then,  doctor?"  he 
asked. 

"If  we  don't  look  out,  MacLean,  she  will  be.  So 
do  your  best." 

"I'll  do  ma  best,"  said  MacLean,  nodding.  "Hitty 
Tilton  's  na  sae  young." 

"She's  na  sae  young,"  repeated  the  doctor.  He 
turned  to  go  out,  but  MacLean  stopped  him  with  a 
word. 

"I  saw  that  cleekin'  scamp,  Mike  Loughery,"  said 
MacLean,  "as  I  cam'  doon  to  open  the  shop." 

"H'rn!"  snorted  Doctor  Olcott. 

"  He  was  a'  wet  through,"  continued  MacLean,  "sae 
that  his  clothes  drippit.  He  was  growlin'  to  himsel' 
and  the  waur  for  wear.  He  wooldna  notice  me  at  a'." 

171 


OLD   HARBOR 


"H'm!"  snorted  the  doctor  again.  "Had  some 
sense." 

"  Then,"  added  MacLean,  "  I  saw  the  eediot,  Clanky, 
gae  into  the  colonel's  office." 

The  doctor  began  to  show  some  interest.  He  looked 
at  MacLean  inquiringly.  "Well?"  he  asked. 

"He'll  be  there  yet,"  said  MacLean.  "Waiting  for 
the  colonel,  I  mak'  na  doubt." 

Doctor  Olcott  made  no  reply,  but  he  opened  the 
door  and  went  out.  Then  he  put  his  head  in  again. 
"Here's  the  colonel  now,  MacLean.  Can't  you  stop 
him?" 

"Is  he?"  said  MacLean.  "I  maun  try.  I  hae  nae 
great  expeectations  of  success,"  he  added,  to  himself. 
He  had  tried  it  many  times  before.  "He'll  like,  fine,  to 
know.  Clanky  was  lookin'  main  pleased." 

Colonel  Catherwood  was  nearly  opposite  MacLean 's 
door,  by  this  time. 

"Gude- morning,  Colonel  Catherwood.  Gude- morn 
ing.  Clanky  Beg  '11  be  waiting  in  your  office." 

The  colonel  smiled  slightly.  "  Good-morning,  Mac- 
Lean,"  he  said ;  and  he  passed  on. 

MacLean  was  not  to  be  cheated  so  easily.  He  called 
after  the  colonel.  "It'll  be  about  Mike  Loughery,  I 
mak'  na  doubt." 

The  colonel  smiled  the  more,  on  hearing  this,  but 
made  no  sign. 

Because  of  MacLean's  shouted  information,  Colonel 
Catherwood  was  prepared  to  find  Clanky,  but  he  was 

172 


OLD    HARBOR 


not  prepared  for  his  laugh.  He  never  got  used  to  that. 
It  rang  out,  now,  and  clattered  so  that  one  would  have 
thought  that  even  Heywood  could  have  heard  it.  No 
doubt  he  did  feel  it,  for  he  smiled  quietly. 

"Don't,  Clanky,"  said  the  colonel,  laying  a  hand  on 
Clanky's  arm;  "don't  do  that  in  here." 

"All  right,"  replied  Clanky,  readily,  "I  won't,  then. 
I  threw  Mike  overboard."  He  was  about  to  laugh 
again,  but  checked  himself  in  time.  "Mike  tore 
Clanky's  clothes.  See  ?"  He  showed  the  colonel  a  long, 
ragged  tear  in  his  coat.  "Mike  got  all  soaking  wet." 

"  Come  in  and  tell  me  all  about  it."  Clanky  followed 
the  colonel  into  the  little  back  room,  and  the  door  shut 
softly  behind  them. 

It  was  a  long  while  before  that  door  was  opened 
again.  Clanky  came  out,  looking  more  than  main 
pleased.  I  don't  know  what  MacLean  would  have 
called  it,  what  comparative  he  would  have  used,  but 
it  was  more  than  main.  The  reason  was  that  Colonel 
Catherwood  had  said  some  things  that  were  very  pleas 
ant  to  hear ;  for  a  boy  who  had  been  used  to  thinking 
himself  of  no  use  in  the  world,  but  only  a  burden  to, 
any  one  who  was  good  enough  to  take  care  of  him,  they 
were  very  pleasant  things  to  hear  indeed.  And  the 
colonel  gave  him  some  money ;  not  much,  but  some 
thing,  and  that  was  pleasant,  too. 

As  he  opened  the  outer  door,  he  gave  a  low  exclama 
tion  and  dodged  back  again. 

"Window,"  he  said.  Without  waiting  for  the  colonel 
173 


OLD   HARBOR 


to  answer,  he  went  silently  into  the  colonel's  office, 
opened  a  window,  and  disappeared. 

Colonel  Catherwood,  amused,  glanced  at  Heywood, 
who  was  amused,  too.  "Harmless  play,"  remarked 
Heywood. 

The  colonel  nodded.  It  would  have  been  of  very 
little  use  to  answer.  Then  he  went  to  the  door  to  see 
whether  he  could  guess  the  cause  of  Clanky's  behavior. 
A  little,  weatherbeaten  old  woman  was  walking  briskly 
down  the  street ;  not  smiling,  as  was  her  wont,  but  look 
ing  worried.  She  would  have  been  there  before,  but 
that  she  had  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  MacLean's.  It  may 
have  been  a  lucky  thing  for  Clanky,  or  it  may  not ;  but 
she  had  not  escaped  MacLean. 

"Hoh!"  MacLean  had  cried,  opening  his  door. 
"  Gude-morning,  Mrs.  Loughery." 

The  old  woman  had  looked  up.  "Good-morning, 
Mr.  MacLean,"  she  had  replied,  with  as  much  of  an 
air  of  finality  as  she  could  manage ;  and  she  would  have 
passed  on.  But  it  would  not  do.  MacLean  was  not 
afraid  of  her  as  he  was  of  Colonel  Catherwood.  He 
would  not  let  her  go,  and  he  opened  his  shop  door 
wider.  It  was  an  invitation  that  she  did  not  accept, 
although  she  stood  still  on  the  sidewalk. 

"Will  Mike  be  dry  yet?"  he  asked,  grinning.  "  He 
was  wet,  when  I  saw  him;  fair  soakin',  sae  that  he 
drippit  with  each  step.  And  he  was  in  nane  o'  the  best 
o'  temper." 

Mrs.  Loughery  smiled,  in  spite  of  herself.  "  Oh, 
174 


OLD    HARBOR 


yes,"  she  said.    "He's  dry  now.    He  fell  out  o'  his 
boat  —  " 

"Oh,  ho!"  cried  MacLean.  "Hoh!  Now,  Mrs. 
Loughery,  ye  don't  believe  that,  yersel'!  Fell  oot  o' 
his  boat!  Hoh!" 

'  'T  was  in  makin'  the  landin'  he  did  it,"  Mrs. 
Loughery  explained  hastily,  "an'  it  that  dark  he 
couldna  see  — 

"  Hoh ! "  cried  MacLean  again.  "  Dark !  Why,  wo 
man,  't  was  daylight.  I  passed  him  when  I  cam'  doon 
to  the  shop  an'  it  was  fresh-wetted.  I'd  swear  to  it." 

"Well,"  replied  Mrs.  Loughery,  "I  know  naught 
of  it  except  that  was  what  Mike  said.  I  believe  him, 
Mr.  MacLean."  She  spoke  with  a  touch  of  asperity. 
"  Ye '11  do  well  to  do  the  same." 

She  was  going  on  again.  MacLean  saw  that  he  must 
have  done  with  that  subject. 

"Mrs.  Loughery,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "how '11  Joe 
be  doin',  the  day?  Puir  lad!" 

That  stopped  her.  "  He 's  doin'  fine,  Mr.  MacLean. 
Better  than  we  could  have  expected.  Livin'  i'  the  open 
air 's  doin'  him  good  fast.  He  hardly  coughs  at  a',  now." 

MacLean  slowly  shook  his  head  from  side  to  side. 
"  Puir  lad !"  he  repeated  mournfully.  " Puir  lad !  It'll 
be  the  relief  comin'  before  deessolution.  They'll  a'  be 
ta'en  that  way.  It  '11  be  a  sign  that  his  end  is  near.  Wo 
man,"  he  said  impressively,  "dinna  ye  ken  it's  creem- 
inal  to  be  doin'  wi'oot  pheesic  in  a  mortal  illness  ? 
Pheesic's  needfu'  for  ill  pairsons." 

175 


OLD    HARBOR 


Mrs.  Loughery  laughed.  "Joe's  doin'  fine,"  she 
said.  She  was  not  impressed.  She  was  going  on,  once 
more.  MacLean  made  a  last  effort. 

"Mrs.  Loughery,"  he  called.  "Ye  hae  na  brought 
me  my  herbs.  Ye  maun  be  cerrtain  they're  the  true 
medeecinal  herbs."  He  kicked  out  his  leg,  with  this. 
"  An'  the  price  that  I  pay  is  twa  bunches  for  a  penny." 

Mrs.  Loughery  nodded.  She  could  not  trust  herself 
to  speak.  As  she  turned  and  resumed  her  brisk  walk, 
she  was  talking  to  herself.  "If  Miss  Conny  could  on'y 
see  the  little  man !  If  she  could,  now !  But  she  got  him 
to  the  life  —  to  the  life." 

Her  smile  faded  as  she  walked ;  she  had  too  many 
things  to  worry  about,  although  she  usually  succeeded 
in  keeping  them  in  the  background.  This  one  was  too 
recent;  it  had  only  just  happened.  What  really  had 
happened  she  could  not  know  until  she  had  seen  the 
colonel  —  bless  him ! 

So  it  happened  that  the  colonel  was  holding  the  door 
open  for  her,  and  he  was  smiling. 

"The  saints  in  heaven  bless  you,  Colonel  Cather- 
wood ! "  said  she. 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Loughery,"  replied  the  colonel, 
gravely.  "Something  is  troubling  you  this  morning? 
Come  into  my  office." 

"It's  about  Mike,"  she  said,  following  him.  She 
saw  the  open  window  and  smiled.  "So  that's  the  way 
Clanky  took.  I  got  just  a  glimpse  of  him,  and  I  won 
dered.  'T  is  no  harm,  colonel.  Clanky 's  a  dear  boy. 

176 


OLD   HARBOR 


He  '11  do  anything  under  the  sun  for  me,  anything  that 
I  '11  ask  of  him  or  anything  that  he  knows  I  want  done. 
He  tries  to  be  truthful.  He  tries  so  hard  it  hurts  me 
sometimes.  He  comes  nearer  than  most  that  have  all 
their  wits.  Sure,  we  can't  always  tell  the  truth,  how 
ever  hard  we  try;  only  as  it  seems  to  us.  There's  few 
that  does  that  much.  Clanky  does  —  always.  And 
there's  Joe.  He'd  have  been  gone  before  this  but  for 
Clanky.  He  takes  better  care  of  Joe  than  a  woman 
could.  Joe's  doing  fine  —  fine." 

"I'm  very  glad,"  said  the  colonel;  "very  glad,  in 
deed." 

"Yes,  Joe's  fine."  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 
"  I  a'most  hope  he'll  get  well." 

"There's  every  reason  to  hope,"  said  the  colonel. 

"  Do  you  think  so,  colonel,  dear  ?  Do  you  think  so, 
now  ?  Well,  then,  I  will.  I  was  afraid  to  —  but  I  think 
I  did,  before.  But  there  's  Mike." 

The  colonel  nodded. 

"He  cam'  home  about  daylight,  soaked  through; 
'sae  that  he  drippit,'  MacLean  says.  MacLean  was 
right.  He  fair  drippit.  He  said  it  was  because  he  fell 
out  of  his  boat.  I  cannot  believe  it,  although  I  just 
told  the  little  man  that  I  did,  God  forgive  me  for  lyin'. 
What  do  you  think  ?  MacLean  always  has  his  nose  in 
other  folks'  business." 

"Clanky  threw  him  overboard,"  said  the  colonel. 
He  saw  no  object  in  delay  or  in  deceit.  "  Clanky  was 
on  the  ship,  at  his  own  request,  to  guard  against  thiev- 

177 


OLD  HARBOR 


ing.  There  has  been  more  or  less  of  it  for  some  time. 
As  near  as  I  can  get  it  from  Clanky's  story,  Mike  came 
aboard,  there  was  a  fight,  and  he  threw  Mike  over  the 
side." 

Mrs.  Loughery  was  silent  for  some  time,  looking  out 
of  the  window.  "  It 's  hard  for  me  to  believe  my  Mike 's 
a  thief,"  she  said,  at  last;  "hard  to  have  to  believe  it. 
But  I  'm  afraid  I  do.  Ah,  what  can  I  do  wi'  him  ?  I 
don't  want  Mike  to  go  to  jail,  an'  there's  where  he'll 
end  if  he's  not  stopped.  What  is  there  that  I  can  do  ?" 

"That's  just  what  I've  been  thinking  about,"  said 
the  colonel.  "  I  've  been  thinking  about  it  for  some  days. 
The  best  that  I  can  do  is  to  ship  him  in  the  '  Susan '  for 
South  America.  She  sails  for  Rio  next  week.  It's  not 
a  solution,  of  course,  not  a  remedy,  but  it's  the  best 
I  can  think  of.  It  may  do  him  some  good,  or  it  may 
not." 

"Bless  you,  colonel,  dear!"  cried  Mrs.  Loughery. 
"Bless  you!  But  Mike's  of  age.  What  if  he  wi'  not 
go  ?  You  can't  shanghai  him." 

Colonel  Catherwood  laughed.  "No,  Mrs.  Loughery, 
we  can't  shanghai  him.  I  think  I  can  persuade  him  to 
go  voluntarily  —  to  want  to  go." 

Mrs.  Loughery  laughed,  too.  "WTell,  then,"  she 
said,  "you  persuade  him,  an'  I'll  take  home  a  lighter 
heart  than  I  brought  away  wi'  me.  My  Joe  an'  my 
Clanky  '11  be  doing  well,  an'  I'll  ha'  hopes  o'  my  Mike, 
too.  I'll  go,  now,  Colonel  Catherwood,  an'  ca'  down 
blessings  on  your  head." 

178 


OLD   HARBOR 


"Don't  smother  me  with  them,"  said  the  colonel, 
smiling. 

"Oh,  never  fear,"  replied  the  old  woman,  rising. 
"  Sma'  fear  o'  that.  An'  well  I  know  't  is  but  a  chance 
for  Mike,  but  I  'm  thankfu'  for  the  chance.  Bless  you, 
colonel,  an'  good-by." 

The  old  woman  was  gone,  with  a  look  to  Heywood 
and  a  kind  word,  walking  briskly,  as  she  always  walked, 
up  the  street. 

Colonel  Catherwood  sat  for  some  minutes,  absorbed 
in  his  thoughts.  Then  he  sighed  and,  turning  to  his 
desk,  pulled  open  a  drawer.  There  was  the  slowly 
growing  pile  of  manuscript.  He  took  out  the  last  few 
sheets  and  read  them  over;  then,  drawing  the  pad  to 
him,  he  began  to  write.  He  had  not  even  a  newspaper 
to  hide  behind.  The  colonel  was  getting  careless.  There 
was  Heywood  and  there  was  Jack.  The  colonel  had 
forgotten  about  Jack,  for  the  moment,  but  Jack  was 
due  at  any  minute.  But  the  colonel  was  safe  from 
discovery,  so  far  as  Jack  was  concerned.  Something 
had  happened  to  detain  him ;  something  that  had  to  do 
with  a  very  attractively  gotten  up  young  woman  in  a 
smart  cart.  Nan  Hedge  had  taken  it  into  her  pretty  head 
that  she  would  explore  the  roads;  the  old  roads,  the 
little  used  roads  —  until  she  —  well,  until  she  tired  of 
exploration.  By  a  mere  chance,  of  course,  she  had  come 
upon  Jack  Catherwood  down  by  the  old  shipyard  just 
exactly  at  the  time  when  further  exploration  ceased  to 
seem  desirable. 


NAN  HEDGE'S  house  was  rather  large ;  too  large  for 
two  women  to  live  in  alone,  Old  Harbor  thought,  and 
said  so,  privately.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Nan 
had  not  heard  this  criticism,  although  it  was  difficult 
to  say  who  had  told  her.  Nan,  herself,  had  but  a  hazy 
idea  on  the  subject.  Probably  it  had  floated  in  as  such 
bits  of  gossip  do.  Perhaps  Octavia  Haight  had  told 
her,  although  that  would  be  but  shifting  the  question 
one  person,  for,  doubtless,  Octavia's  ideas  on  the  sub 
ject  were  as  hazy  as  Nan's.  It  did  not  seem  to  matter 
to  either  of  them.  If  Old  Harbor  had  asked  her,  Nan 
would  have  said  that  the  house  was  not  too  large,  with 
plenty  of  servants  to  take  care  of  it;  and  would  have 
reminded  them  that  the  Miss  Tiltons  had  lived  there, 
and  had  been  subjected  to  no  criticism  of  the  kind. 

The  Miss  Tiltons  were  loner  than  Nan  and  Mrs. 
Haight,  for  they  had  had  no  servants  at  all,  and  had 
been  compelled,  in  self-defense,  to  shut  up  the  greater 
part  of  the  house;  which  was  just  what  Nan  did  not 
do.  She  kept  it  all  open  and  well  heated  and  lighted. 
And  Miss  Harriet  Joyce  had  lived,  until  within  three 
months,  a  still  more  lonely  life,  all  sole  alone  in  a  house 
nearly  as  large.  For  Miss  Joyce's  one  maid-servant 
did  not  count. 

180 


OLD    HARBOR 


In  response  to  all  of  which  allegations,  Old  Harbor 
would  have  shrugged  its  shoulders,  —  if  it  did  such 
things,  —  and  would  have  replied  that  that  was  differ 
ent.  It  would  have  thought  that  the  Miss  Tiltons' 
living  in  the  house  that  had  been  their  father's  and 
their  grandfather's  made  the  difference.  The  house 
had  not  been  too  large  for  Captain  Tilton.  Miss  Joyce's 
case  was  similar.  Although  Old  Harbor  would  have 
thought  all  this,  it  would  not  have  said  it,  for  it  would 
have  considered  it  ill-bred  to  say  it.  It  might  not  have 
made  any  difference  to  Nan  if  they  had  said  it.  She 
probably  would  have  shrugged  her  shoulders, — for 
she  did  such  things,  —  and  have  smiled  and  made  no 
other  reply.  It  might  make  a  difference  to  Nan  what 
Old  Harbor  said.  At  one  period  she  would  not  have 
cared  at  all  what  the  Old  Harborites  said,  but  would 
have  set  them  down  as  a  parcel  of  old  fogies.  That 
period  was  in  the  somewhat  recent  past.  It  was  by  no 
means  certain  that  she  would  not  have  cared  now. 

Octavia  Haight  was  thinking  of  these  things  as  she 
moved  about  noiselessly,  lighting  the  lamps  in  the  two 
long  parlors  and  in  the  library,  across  the  hall.  The 
lamps  in  the  hall  and  the  dining-room  were  delegated 
to  a  maid.  What  Mrs.  Haight  was  doing  was  not  dele 
gated  because  —  well,  because  Nan  preferred  that  it 
should  not  be,  and  because  things  were  usually  done 
as  Nan  preferred.  Mrs.  Haight  smiled  to  herself;  not 
a  pleasant  smile,  somehow,  although  it  would  have 
puzzled  any  one  to  say  why. 

181 


OLD    HARBOR 


She  was  a  tall  woman,  with  black  hair  and  an  olive 
skin,  and  with  features  which  were  classic  in  their  reg 
ularity.  She  carried  herself  well,  and  her  movements 
were  always  slow  and  majestic.  Altogether,  rather  a 
magnificent  person ;  a  fact  which,  evidently,  she  never 
allowed  herself  to  forget.  She  was  a  great  contrast 
to  Nan.  Whatever  Nan  Hedge  was,  she  was  neither 
majestic  nor  magnificent.  Nan  must  have  been  aware 
that  Mrs.  Haight  had  great  beauty.  Perhaps  I  should 
say  that  she  had  had  great  beauty,  for  she  was  a  few 
years  older  than  Nan.  That  was  not  necessarily  old, 
but  —  well,  it  took  greater  art  to  conceal  the  ravages 
of  life  —  not  of  time ;  years  do  not  matter  so  much 
—  in  her  case  than  in  Nan's.  Nan  must  have  been 
aware  of  that,  too.  It  may  have  accounted  for  her 
position  in  Nan's  household.  Her  position  was  suffi 
ciently  obvious.  Nobody  knew  how  it  grated  that  it 
was  so  obvious.  And  it  was  sufficiently  indefinite.  Nan 
looked  out  for  that. 

So  Mrs.  Haight,  as  she  lighted  the  lamps,  smiled 
her  smile  that  was  not  quite  pleasant.  The  rooms,  with 
the  exception  of  lamps,  and  rugs  spread  over  the  car 
pets,  and  a  few  other  things  that  made  life  easier  and 
more  comfortable  for  herself,  were  much  as  Nan  had 
found  them.  There  were  even  the  two  great  shells, 
with  their  delicate  pink  lining,  on  the  front  parlor 
mantel,  and  the  two  curious,  old-fashioned  lamps,  for 
burning  whale  oil,  on  the  back-parlor  mantel.  The 
cabinet  of  shells,  that  had  stood  in  the  corner  of  the 

182 


OLD   HARBOR 


front  parlor,  was  with  the  Tilton  girls,  now;  so  were 
most  of  the  better  and  more  delicate  pieces  of  furniture 
that  Captain  Tilton  had  brought  home  from  India 
and  China:  tables  of  ebony  and  teak-wood,  inlaid  with 
ivory,  and  an  ebony  tabouret  inlaid  with  silver,  and 
many  another  thing  that  the  Miss  Tiltons  had  been 
unwilling  to  part  with,  although  their  rooms  were 
crowded  until  they  looked  like  a  shop  of  antiques. 
The  Tilton  girls  were  of  an  appropriate  presence  for 
such  an  establishment.  But  they  could  not  take  every 
thing  ;  a  fact  —  an  undeniable  fact  —  which  they  re 
gretted. 

Mrs.  Haight  regarded  these  relics,  as  she  considered 
them,  with  distaste  and  disapproval.  As  she  lighted 
the  lamps  in  the  back  parlor,  her  glance  chanced  to 
fall  upon  the  two  old  whale-oil  lamps  —  as  it  seemed 
to  her,  filled  with  intricate  machinery. 

She  smiled  again.  "Well!"  she  murmured.  "I'm 
glad  that  I  don't  have  to  light  those.  I  think  I  should 
resign,  if  that  was  a  part  of  my  duty."  She  knew  very 
well  that  she  would  not.  She  would  learn  the  office  of 
the  intricate  machinery,  instead.  "It  would  take  a 
plumber  to  light  those." 

She  passed  across  the  hall,  and  lighted  the  lamp  in 
the  library.  A  cannel  coal  fire  was  bubbling  softly  in 
the  grate,  and  she  sank  into  an  easy-chair  before  it  and 
folded  her  hands  in  her  lap.  There  was  the  swish  of 
skirts  on  the  stairs,  and  Nan  came  in. 

"Well,  Octavia!"  she  said.  She  was  smiling.  She 
183 


OLD    HARBOR 


tried  not  to,  and  succeeded ;  then  she  would  forget,  and 
the  smile  would  come  again. 

"Nan,"  said  Mrs.  Haight,  "why  don't  you  clear  out 
all  this  stuff  and  make  the  house  modern?" 

Nan  was  surprised.  She  stood  by  the  fire  and  looked 
around  at  the  room  and  its  furnishings  —  a  brief  look. 
Then  she  looked  into  the  fire  and  her  smile  came 
again. 

"  It  would  n't  be  an  improvement,"  she  said  shortly. 
"  I  like  it  as  it  is." 

Mrs.  Haight  made  no  reply.  She  knew  better. 
There  was  a  long  silence,  during  which  she  watched 
Nan  and  saw  her  smile  come  and  go. 

"What's  up,  Nan?"  she  asked,  at  last. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  Nan  replied  quickly;  "nothing 
much.  Only,"  she  added,  as  if  she  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  to  tell  somebody,  —  "  only  I  am  rather 
expecting  company  to-night." 

"Steady?"  asked  Mrs.  Haight,  with  her  slow  smile. 

That  smile  seemed  to  mock  at  Nan,  but  she  paid  no 
attention  to  it.  "  Jack  Catherwood,"  she  said,  and 
flushed  quickly.  That  flush,  at  least,  was  real  enough. 
There  was  reason  to  believe  that  it  was  not  painted  on. 

Octavia  Haight  raised  her  eyebrows  the  least  bit. 
They  were  very  fine  eyebrows  and  she  knew  it  and 
used  them;  but  not  too  much.  The  effect  was  good. 
Mrs.  Haight  knew  that,  too. 

"Indeed,"  she  said.  "Then  I  presume  you  can  sur 
vive  without  me,  after  I  have  met  him.  Of  course,  I 

184 


OLD   HARBOR 


must  meet  him,  for  the  sake  of  the  proprieties.  After 
that,  Nan,  you  will  have  him  to  yourself." 

Something  in  Octavia's  speech  made  Nan  laugh 
shortly.  "As  you  please,"  she  said. 

After  that  there  was  silence.  Nan  never  talked  to 
Octavia  unless  she  wanted  to,  and  Octavia  knew  the 
role  which  she  was  expected  to  play;  which,  as  she 
thought,  she  had  to  play  if  she  would  keep  the  place 
that  was  hers  in  Nan's  household.  She  did  not  have 
to  talk  now,  for  which  she  was  very  glad.  Instead,  she 
watched  Nan  for  a  long  time,  covertly,  and  there  was 
something  wistful  in  her  look,  as  if  she  thought  that 
Nan  was  getting  something  that  she  had  missed,  and 
wanted.  Whether  that  was  so  or  not,  I  do  not  know. 
One  would  have  thought  that  Octavia  Haight  might 
have  had  every  experience  that  Nan  Hedge  was  likely 
to  have,  and  in  fuller  measure.  But  I  know  nothing 
of  her  past;  only  that  she  was  there,  in  Nan's  house, 
as  I  have  said :  a  handsome  woman,  even  a  magnifi 
cent  woman,  with  a  smile  that  was  not  quite  pleas 
ant. 

Nan  drew  up  another  easy-chair  before  the  fire  and 
reclined  in  it  very  gracefully. 

"I  met  Mr.  Catherwood,  the  other  day,"  she  re 
marked,  at  last,  "quite  by  accident,  of  course."  Nan 
looked  up  and  smiled. 

"Of  course,"  said  Octavia.  "I  understand  that  it 
was  quite  by  accident."  And  she  smiled,  too. 

"  It  was  down  by  an  old  place  that  must  have  been 
185 


OLD    HARBOR 


a  shipyard,"  continued  Nan.  "  He  had  been  sketching. 
His  sketches  are  very  good  —  very  good  indeed." 

"  I  can  understand  that  his  sketches,  being  his,  must 
be  very  good  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Haight.  Nan  flushed 
again  quickly,  and  again  the  flush  was  unmistakably 
real.  "He  showed  them  to  you,  then?" 

Nan  laughed.  "I  insisted  upon  seeing  them,"  she 
replied.  "That  was  when  we  were  driving  home." 

"Oh,"  said  Octavia,  "so  he  came  home  with  you. 
Of  course  he  seemed  to  want  to." 

"  He  was  dying  to,"  answered  Nan.  "  He  would  n't 
ask,  so  I  took  him  in." 

"I  can  believe  that,"  Octavia  returned;  and  they 
laughed  together. 

"Then,"  Nan  continued,  "I  brought  him  into  town, 
by  a  rather  roundabout  way,  I'm  afraid.  You  know 
how  my  horse  wanders." 

"  I  know,"  said  Octavia,  sympathetically.  "  He  is  a 
great  wanderer  —  to  the  stable,  by  the  shortest  road." 

"Then  I  dropped  him." 

"You  dropped  him!"  echoed  Octavia. 

"At  his  request,"  replied  Nan.  "He  had  to  go  to 
the  office.  I  don't  believe  he  has  anything  to  do  there, 
but  he  said  he  had  to  go." 

"  So  you  dropped  him  at  his  office  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Nan.  "  I  dropped  him  a  block  away  from 
the  office." 

And  Octavia  chuckled,  while  Nan  laughed  her  low- 
pitched  laugh  until  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

186 


OLD   HARBOR 


"I  must  stop  laughing,"  remarked  Nan,  "or  I  shall 
spoil  my  complexion.  But  it  was  funny." 

She  wiped  her  eyes,  carefully.  "He  mentioned  his 
wish  to  call,"  she  added.  "That  was  while  we  were 
driving." 

"  With  only  proper  encouragement  ?  "  asked  Octavia. 

"Of  course,"  said  Nan,  "I  gave  him  only  proper 
encouragement.  He  seemed  to  need  it.  I  suggested 
to-night." 

"  Oh,"  said  Octavia. 

"At  first,  I  suggested  to-morrow  night,"  said  Nan. 
"  He  had  an  engagement,  at  his  aunt's,  Miss  Joyce's. 
So,  not  to  discourage  him  too  much,  I  mentioned  that 
to-night  would  be  propitious." 

"He  is  really  coming,  then?" 

"  I  think  so,"  Nan  replied ;  "  but  I  shall  not  be  sure 
of  him  until  I  see  him." 

Mrs.  Haight  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes ;  digesting 
Nan's  information,  probably.  Her  mental  processes 
were  not  rapid. 

"Shall  you  dress  for  him,  Nan  ?"  she  asked,  at  last. 

"I  don't  dare,"  said  Nan.  "Old  Harbor  is  con 
servative.  But  just  you  wait.  Some  day,  or  night,  I 
will." 

Again  Mrs.  Haight  was  silent;  and,  before  she  had 
time  to  formulate  a  reply,  a  soft-voiced  maid  announced 
dinner.  That  changed  the  current  of  her  thoughts 
somewhat,  for,  as  your  magnificent,  mentally  slow 
women  are  apt  to  do,  she  thought  a  good  deal  of  dinner ; 

187 


OLD   HARBOR 


much  more  than  Nan  did.  Nan's  mental  processes 
were  not  slow.  I  say  nothing  of  men  and  imply  nothing. 

At  dinner,  Octavia  played  the  r6le  of  sympathetic 
friend  as  well  as  she  could.  She  did  it  pretty  well,  for 
she  had  had  a  long  experience  at  it.  If  she  could  not 
see  that  Nan  occasionally  wearied  of  it,  and  if,  now 
and  then,  Nan  made  rather  sharper  remarks  than  the 
occasion  seemed  to  call  for,  Octavia  is  not  to  be  blamed. 
Nan,  herself,  saw  that,  and,  it  may  be,  blamed  her 
self  for  her  impatience  —  if  she  ever  blamed  herself 
for  anything.  Perhaps  she  never  blamed  herself;  she 
had  not  been  accustomed  to.  Octavia,  who  would  have 
liked  to  dawdle  over  her  dinner  and  thereby  prolong 
her  enjoyment  of  it,  gave  what  attention  to  it  she  could, 
—  not  as  much  as  it  deserved ;  she  realized  that,  —  but 
she  gave  it  as  much  attention  as  she  thought  she  could, 
and,  between  mouthfuls,  she  made  remarks  of  a  com 
forting  and  sympathetic  nature  to  Nan,  as  the  occa 
sion  seemed  to  warrant. 

As  they  rose  from  the  table,  Octavia  thought,  with 
a  regretful  sigh,  that  the  dinner  had  been  much  too 
hurried.  Nan  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  they  had  been  an  unconscionable  time  at  the  table, 
for  just  two  people.  It  was  nearly  eight  o'clock.  In 
Old  Harbor,  people  might  be  expected  to  call  at  nearly 
eight  o'clock,  Nan  thought.  She  did  not  know,  for  she 
had  not  had  an  evening  call  since  she  had  been  there. 

Octavia  moved  slowly  toward  her  easy-chair  before 
the  fire,  and  seated  herself,  but  Nan  did  not  sit  down . 

188 


OLD  HARBOR 


She  was  restless  and  moved  about  the  room,  stopping, 
inconsequently,  before  anything  that  might  serve  to 
arrest  her  attention.  Octavia  smiled  as  she  watched 
her,  but  she  did  not  speak.  She  waited  for  Nan. 

"Octavia,"  asked  Nan,  at  last,  abruptly,  "I  am 
very  domestic,  am  I  not?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Octavia,  smiling  the  more,  "  if  you 
like." 

"Well,"  said  Nan,  then,  "what  have  you  done  with 
my  sewing?" 

Octavia  broke  out  into  a  chuckle.  "That's  a  poser, 
Nan;  I  give  it  up.  What's  the  answer?" 

"I  think,  Octavia,"  Nan  said  seriously  enough, 
—  but  there  was  the  suspicion  of  a  twinkle  in  her 
eye,  —  "I  think  that  you  will  have  to  find  me  some 
sewing,  and  a  nice,  domestic-looking  basket,  right 
away." 

Octavia  thought  for  a  minute.  "  I  can  get  you  some 
embroidery,  Nan,"  she  suggested,  looking  up. 

"I've  got  embroidery  of  my  own,  somewhere,"  re 
plied  Nan,  quickly,  "  but  embroidery  is  n't  what  I 
want.  Can't  you  find  some  plain  sewing  ?  It  should  n't 
be  too  plain." 

Again  Octavia  glanced  up  at  Nan  and  smiled. 
"White  goods?"  she  asked. 

"We— ell,"  said  Nan,  slowly,  "not  too  white." 

Octavia  laughed.  "  I  '11  see,"  she  said,  rising.  "  What 
do  you  know  about  sewing,  Nan  ?" 

"I  can  sew  beautifully,"  Nan  answered.  "They 
189 


OLD    HARBOR 


taught  me  at  the  convent.  I  have  n't  done  any  since  I 
left." 

"Oh,"  said  Octavia,  "I  did  n't  know.  What  makes 
you  think  that  Mr.  Catherwood  will  like  it?" 

"  They  all  like  it,"  said  Nan,  "  even  the  best  of  them. 
It's  more  fetching  than  embroidery.  But  bring  the 
embroidery  if  you  can't  find  the  sewing.  And  a  basket," 
she  called.  "  I  must  have  a  basket." 

Nan  was  still  wandering  restlessly  about  the  room 
when  Octavia  came  down  again,  bringing  the  basket, 
which  was  so  necessary.  She  put  it  down  on  the  table 
and  laid  a  fresh  piece  of  cambric  on  top. 

" There,  Nan,"  she  said.  " There's  an  opportunity  to 
exercise  your  talents.  There's  a  piece  of  cambric.  You 
can  make  what  you  like."  She  sank  into  her  easy- 
chair  and  proceeded  to  do  nothing  with  all  her  might. 

"Mercy!"  cried  Nan,  under  her  breath.  "Have  I 
got  to  decide  right  away  in  a  minute?" 

Octavia  laughed,  but  said  nothing.  Nan  sat  down 
near  the  table  —  not  too  near.  Her  face  was  in  the 
half  shadow,  but  the  lamplight  fell  full  on  her  work  and 
on  her  hands.  Nan  had  beautiful  hands:  white  and 
soft  and  with  slim,  taper  fingers.  She  threaded  a  needle 
skillfully,  and  took  up  the  cambric.  Octavia  watched 
her  curiously. 

"Tableau!"  she  observed.    "Domesticity." 

"  Penelope  among  the  suitors,"  amended  Nan ;  "  but 
she  was  either  weaving  or  spinning,  I  believe.  Spinning 
is  too  primitive." 

190 


OLD    HARBOR 


"Was  n't  Penelope  a  widow?"  asked  Octavia. 

"Generally  so  considered,"  answered  Nan;  "but 
she  was  n't." 

"  Oh,"  murmured  Octavia,  looking  into  the  fire  and 
turning  a  dark  red.  Nan  should  have  known  better 
than  to  say  it. 

"And  here  are  no  suitors,"  Nan  added. 

"  Oh,  he  will  come  later,"  said  Octavia;  and  watched 
the  blood  flash  into  Nan's  face  and  flash  out  again. 

Nan  worked  in  silence  for  some  time.  Then,  sud 
denly,  she  got  up  and  cast  her  work  into  Octavia's  lap. 
"There!"  she  said.  "How  is  that?  Can  I  sew?" 

Octavia  examined  it  carefully.  "  It  's  beautiful  sew 
ing,  Nan.  I  guess  you  can  sew,  after  all.  What  is 
it?" 

Nan  had  wandered  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 
"Oh,  /  don't  know,"  she  called,  over  her  shoulder. 
"  Nothing,  I  guess.  Just  sewing  —  plain  sewing." 

Octavia  regarded  her  for  a  moment  with  something 
like  pity.  Then  she  hardened. 

"It's  time  your  young  man  was  coming,  Nan,"  she 
said  quietly,  "if  he's  coming." 

She  placed  no  undue  emphasis  anywhere,  but  Nan 
understood. 

"  If  he 's  coming,  you  meant  to  say,  Octavia.  Per 
haps  he's  not.  He  may  have  changed  his  mind.  They 
sometimes  do."  Again  Octavia's  face  burned.  It  was 
not  the  fault  of  the  fire.  "  I  said  I  should  n't  be  sure 
of  him  until  I  saw  him,  and  I  shan't." 

191 


OLD    HARBOR 


A  maid  passed  through  the  hall,  silently;  hesitated, 
stopped,  and  closed  the  library  door,  murmuring  an 
apology. 

"  I  think  my  young  man  has  arrived,"  Nan  observed. 

She  was  standing  rather  in  shadow.  She  could  not 
well  wear  a  veil;  veils  are  not  usually  worn  at  home, 
in  the  evening.  As  she  stood  there,  she  looked  very 
well,  almost  beautiful.  To  a  young  man  without  ex 
perience  her  complexion  would  seem  real,  and  it  may 
have  been;  and  the  tiny  wrinkles  about  her  eyes,  if 
there  were  any  wrinkles,  would  not  be  evident.  Even 
you  or  I,  not  being  inexperienced,  would  have  had 
difficulty  in  seeing  them.  Whether  Jack  Catherwood 
was  a  young  man  without  experience,  I  do  not  know. 

Both  Nan  and  Octavia  heard  the  front  door  open 
and  shut  again,  and  they  heard  his  voice. 

Nan  pressed  her  hands  to  her  heart  and  leaned  for 
ward  eagerly.  "He  comes!"  she  breathed.  Octavia 
chuckled  silently.  The  maid  brought  in  his  cards. 

Nan  started  forward ;  then  stopped.  "I'll  bring  him 
in  here,  Octavia,"  she  said.  "It's  much  pleasanter." 

It  was  with  a  shock  of  mingled  surprise,  pleasure, 
and  regret  that  Nan  saw  him,  as  he  came  forward  to 
meet  her.  He  looked  as  if  he  lived  in  evening  clothes. 
Somehow,  she  had  not  expected  that  in  Old  Harbor, 
she  could  not  have  told  why.  She  took  him  into  the 
library  and  presented  him  to  Mrs.  Haight,  and  he  set 
tled  himself  in  a  chair  before  the  fire.  Nan  sat  where 
she  had  sat  before  he  came.  Her  chair  had  been  care- 

192 


OLD    HARBOR 


fully  placed  with  due  regard  to  the  effect.  The  light 
fell  upon  her  hands,  but  her  face  was  in  the  shadow. 
Her  sewing  lay  where  Octavia  had  tossed  it,  beside 
her  basket.  She  did  not  feel  quite  so  sure  of  the  need 
of  it. 

Presently,  Mrs.  Haight  rose  and  excused  herself  for 
a  moment,  and  Jack  felt  vaguely  uncomfortable.  Nan 
saw  it  and  laughed. 

"Octavia  has  something  to  do  upstairs,"  she  said. 
"She'll  be  back  before  you  go.  I  don't  bite." 

Octavia  had  not  gone  all  the  way  up  the  stairs.  She 
went  only  to  the  landing,  sat  down  on  the  step  beyond 
the  turn,  and  listened  with  all  her  ears. 

She  did  not  hear  anything  worth  taking  all  that 
trouble  for;  only  the  foolish  things  that  one  expects 
when  a  man  calls  on  a  girl  for  the  first  time.  Then  she 
did  not  hear  even  that;  only  the  sound  of  low  voices, 
principally  Jack's,  with  Nan's  breaking  in,  now  and 
then.  But  she  knew  Nan,  and  she  knew,  just  from  the 
sound  of  her  voice,  that  she  was  interested.  And  she 
thought  she  knew  that  Nan  would  be  interested  in  only 
the  one  kind  of  thing,  said  by  a  man  like  Jack  Gather- 
wood,  and  her  feelings  were  such  as  might  be  expected, 
under  those  circumstances. 

Octavia,  sitting  there  on  the  landing,  and  hearing 
nothing  but  the  sound  of  low  voices,  was  mistaken. 
Jack  was  not  saying  the  one  kind  of  thing,  but  he  was 
telling  Nan  of  the  life  of  the  Tilton  girls  in  that  very 
house.  Nan  was  really  interested.  But  Octavia  was 

193 


OLD    HARBOR 


right  in  one  respect.  It  was  not  the  kind  of  thing  that 
would  be  expected  of  Nan. 

"The  poor  old  dears!"  Nan  broke  out,  at  last.  "It 
makes  me  ashamed  of  myself."  You  would  not  have 
expected  that  of  Nan  either,  if  you  had  known  her  as 
well  as  Octavia  did  —  only  as  well  as  Octavia  knew 
her.  Nan,  herself,  would  have  been  surprised,  if  she 
had  stopped  to  think  of  it. 

"Yes,"  said  Jack,  "they  are  old  dears,  if  you  get  to 
know  them.  It  is  not  easy." 

"No,"  Nan  replied,  looking  down  at  the  piece  of 
cambric.  She  had  taken  it  up  idly,  and  idly  held  it. 
She  made  no  pretense  of  sewing.  "But  one  can  try." 

Nan  was  silent  for  some  while.  Octavia  did  not 
hear  the  sound  of  low  voices ;  and  she  thought  —  but 
I  do  not  know  what  she  thought.  When  Nan  had  been 
silent  so  long  that  her  silence  was  becoming  embar 
rassing,  suddenly  she  tossed  the  cambric  into  Jack's 
hands,  much  as  she  had  tossed  it  into  Octavia's. 

"Do  you  know  what  that  is?"  she  asked. 

Jack  examined  it  at  some  length.  "No,"  he  an 
swered,  rather  puzzled,  "except  that  it  seems,  to  my 
inexperienced  eye,  a  piece  of  very  fine  sewing.  Sort 
of  a  sampler?"  he  asked,  looking  up. 

"  You  might  call  it  a  sampler,"  Nan  returned.  "The 
sewing  is  fine  enough.  They  taught  me  to  sew  at  the 
convent."  She  spoke  scornfully.  "/  don't  know  what 
it  is,  either."  She  laughed  her  low-pitched  laugh.  She 
seemed  amused  at  herself.  "  That  was  for  your  benefit." 

194 


OLD   HARBOR 


Jack  laughed  too.   "  What  ?  "  he  asked  incredulously. 

"Oh,  it's  true,"  said  Nan.  "I  thought  it  would 
make  me  seem  domestic,  —  and  I'm  not  domestic." 
Nan  was  embarrassed ;  a  very  unexpected  thing.  She 
was  looking  down  at  her  hands.  "  When  you  told  me 
about  those  poor  Miss  Tiltons,  it  made  me  very  much 
ashamed  of  myself."  She  looked  frankly  up  at  Jack. 
"I  wish  you'd  forget  it." 

"Well,  I  shan't,"  said  Jack.  He  was  smiling  as  he 
said  it.  He  rose  to  go. 

"Well," Nan  observed  confidentially,  "anyway, I've 
confessed,  and  I  feel  better." 

It  is  to  be  doubted  if  Nan  could  have  found  a  way 
that  would  have  advanced  her  cause  more,  supposing 
that  she  had  a  cause  to  advance.  She  may  have  thought 
of  that  and  she  may  not. 

"Here  comes  Octavia,"  Nan  said,  in  a  voice  that  ill- 
disposed  persons  might  have  called  a  whisper. 

Jack  could  hear  Octavia  Haight  coming  down  the 
stairs. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  "Susan"  had  sailed  away,  at  last,  for  New 
York  first,  to  load,  and  then  for  Rio.  She  had  carried 
Mike  Loughery,  presumably  for  Rio,  too.  Mike  had 
seemed  a  very  cheerful  sailor,  of  an  astonishing  igno 
rance,  considering  the  fact  that  he  had  been  brought 
up  in  a  harbor  town.  But  his  operations  had  been 
confined  to  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  shore,  and 
had  been  limited  to  dories,  for  the  most  part,  and  he 
had  never  been  in  a  deep-sea  vessel  before.  Indeed, 
his  experiences  had  never  carried  him  farther  upon  the 
ocean  than  a  cat-boat  or  a  small  sloop  will  sail  with  a 
keg  of  beer  and  a  crew  consisting  of  half-drunken  young 
men,  each  with  a  flask  in  his  pocket,  and  a  skipper  who 
is  no  skipper  at  all.  It  was  a  wonder  that  he  had  not 
been  drowned  on  some  one  of  these  excursions ;  it  can 
only  be  attributed  to  luck  that  he  had  not  been.  But 
he  had  not,  and  he  had  seemed  to  have  cheerful  anti 
cipation  of  repeating  some  of  these  experiences  on  the 
"Susan."  Colonel  Catherwood,  watching  him,  had 
enjoined  the  mate  to  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  him  while 
they  were  in  port. 

Mrs.  Loughery  had  been  there,  at  the  wharf,  to  see 
him  off,  and  she  was  tearful  and  half  laughing.  Mike 
paid  but  scant  attention  to  his  mother;  what  little  he 

196 


OLD   HARBOR 


gave  her  was  well  enough,  for  Mike  was  a  smooth 
scamp.  Mike's  attention  had  been  divided  between 
his  mother  and  Nora,  who  had  slipped  down  from  the 
Catherwoods',  and  who  had  stood  apart,  tearful,  too, 
but  not  laughing  at  all.  Mike  did  his  smooth  best  to 
comfort  her. 

Joe  Loughery  was  not  there,  nor  was  Clanky  Beg,  so 
far  as  could  be  seen;  but  if  one  had  looked  into  the 
old  deserted  building  that  stood  at  the  head  of  the  old 
deserted  wharf  a  little  farther  down  the  water  front, 
he  might  have  seen  somebody  that  looked  very  much 
like  Clanky,  with  a  broad  smile  of  triumphant  glee 
fixed  upon  his  face.  It  was  not  surprising  that  Clanky 
should  have  been  there,  nor  that  he  should  be  gleeful ; 
but  it  might  have  been  just  cause  for  surprise  to  have 
found  Eben  behind  the  corner  of  the  same  building 
and  to  note  the  light  of  longing  that  shone  in  his 
eyes. 

Eben  Joyce  had  longed,  passionately,  to  be  sailing 
in  the  "  Susan."  He  would  not  have  been  as  cheerful, 
perhaps,  as  Mike,  but  he  would  have  been  no  ignorant 
sailor.  He  knew  that  well;  and  he  knew,  too,  that  it 
would  be  foolish  for  him  to  go,  under  the  circumstances. 
He  had  not  gone ;  but  the  longing  was  still  there  when 
he  had  watched  the  ship  pass  out  of  sight  behind  a 
point  of  land  and  knew  that  she  was  over  the  bar  and 
at  sea.  He  rose  to  go  home,  with  a  tightening  at  his 
throat  and  a  mist  before  his  eyes. 

Colonel  Catherwood  had  seen  the  "Susan"  disap- 
197 


OLD    HARBOR 


pear  behind  that  same  point  of  land.    He  turned  to 
Jack,  who  was  standing  beside  him. 

"Well,"  he  said,  with  a  long  sigh,  "that's  the  last 
of  her  for  some  months,  and  the  last  of  Mike,  I  hope. 
It's  a  load  off  Mrs.  Loughery's  shoulders.  It's  a  load 
off  your  mother's,  too,  I  think." 

Jack  laughed.  "I  observe  that  Nora  came  down  to 
see  him  off." 

The  colonel's  smile  put  Nora  from  him.  "She'll  get 
over  it,"  he  said.  "  But  I  have  nothing  to  distract  my 
attention,  now." 

Jack  laughed  again.  "Distract  your  attention  from 
what?"  he  asked. 

"From  my  office  work,  of  course,"  answered  his 
father;  "and  there  is  nothing  to  interfere  with  your 
sketching,  Jackie.  Not  that  there  ever  was,  for  that 
matter.  I  don't  see  how  you  can  do  much  sketching, 
though,  in  this  weather,  and  later.  Your  fingers  will 
be  stiff  with  the  cold." 

"It  is  n't  bad,  yet,"  Jack  answered  slowly.  "I  may 
have  to  give  it  up,  a  little  later." 

The  colonel  laid  his  hand  on  Jack's  arm.  "  No,  no," 
he  said  quickly.  "  Don't  give  it  up,  Jack.  There  must 
be  some  room  in  the  house  that  you  could  use  for  a 
studio.  I've  been  thinking  —  but  I'll  think  further. 
Run  along,  now,  and  sketch.  Got  your  sketch-book? 
There's  nothing  in  the  world  to  do  in  the  office." 

"Thank  you,  dad,"  Jack  said,  smiling.  "I  can't  carry 
the  book  in  my  pocket.  I'll  just  come  in  and  get  it." 

198 


OLD    HARBOR 


So  Jack  went  off,  up  the  street,  to  his  sketching, 
where,  he  himself  could  not,  at  the  moment,  have  told ; 
and  the  colonel  watched  his  athletic  young  figure  for 
some  minutes.  Then  he  turned,  smiling,  went  into  his 
private  office,  shut  the  door,  and  opened  his  desk.  He 
sorted  over  some  papers,  mechanically. 

"Oh,  what's  the  use?"  he  muttered.  "I've  got  to 
do  it." 

Sitting  down,  he  opened  the  drawer  which  contained 
his  memoirs,  as  far  as  they  had  gone.  He  took  up  the 
top  sheet,  read  a  little;  then  he  drew  his  pad  towards 
him  and  began  to  write. 

Meanwhile  Eben,  anxious  only  to  escape  observa 
tion,  was  making  his  way  homeward  through  back 
streets.  Suddenly  he  saw  Miss  Mervin.  He  would  have 
obeyed  his  first  impulse,  which  was  to  run  for  it,  or  to 
slink  away ;  but  he  saw  that  it  was  too  late.  Abbie  had 
seen  him.  She  must  have  seen  him  unless  she  had 
been  stricken  with  sudden  blindness,  for  she  almost 
ran  into  him  as  she  came  around  a  corner.  She  was 
very  near ;  so  near  that  he  heard  her  low  exclamation 
perfectly  well. 

"Oh,  Eben!"  she  cried.  "I  have  —  have  wanted 
to  see  you.  I  —  I  wanted  to  ask  you"  -  She  hesi 
tated.  "Suppose  I  walk  up  to  the  house  with  you." 

Eben  was  apt  to  be  dominated  by  his  manner.  It  was 
a  habit,  bred  in  the  bone,  it  seemed.  His  manner  did 
not  desert  him  now.  His  smile  expressed  just  the  right 
amount  of  deference,  just  the  right  degree  of  intimacy. 

199 


OLD   HARBOR 


"That  would  be  nice  of  you,  Abbie,"  he  said ;  "  very 
kind,  indeed.  But  shan't  I  go  with  you,  to  your  house, 
or  wherever  you  are  going?  Harriet  is  away,  you 
know." 

It  would  have  been  foolish  for  Abbie  to  pretend  that 
she  did  not  know  it.  Eben,  whenever  she  saw  him, 
appeared  to  be  all  that  could  be  desired.  It  was  only 
when  she  was  not  with  him  that  she  had  doubts ;  doubts 
of  him  and  of  herself.  She  owed  it  to  her  conscience  — 
or  did  she?  She  wished,  devoutly,  that  she  knew. 

"I  had  forgotten,"  she  replied;  "I  did  n't  think  of 
it.  I  will  walk  up  with  you,  part  way,  at  any  rate." 

They  walked  on  together.  Abbie  was  wondering 
how  it  would  seem  to  be  looking  forward  to  walking 
with  Eben  all  her  life.  Somehow,  she  was  not  ready 
for  that  prospect ;  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to 
it.  If  there  were  only  somebody  that  she  could  ask! 
She  felt  the  need  of  advice,  which  she  did  not,  usually. 
She  despised  advice,  and  she  made  no  bones  of  saying 
so.  There  was  William.  His  advice  was  good,  and  he 
would  be  a  dispassionate  adviser.  Possibly  she  could 
frame  her  question  so  as  to  disguise  its  true  import. 
William  was  not  quick  to  see  what  he  was  not  meant 
to  see.  Abbie  thought  only  the  more  of  him  for  that. 

Suddenly  she  realized  that  she  and  Eben  were  walk 
ing  on  together  and  saying  nothing.  That  would  not  do. 

"  Where  have  you  —  Oh,  the  '  Susan '  sailed  this 
morning,  did  n't  she  ?  "  she  said.  "  Is  that  where  you  've 
been,  to  see  her  off?" 

200 


OLD    HARBOR 


"Yes,"  answered  Eben,  slowly.  He  was  very  grave; 
almost  solemn.  "I  —  I  wanted  to  go  in  her  very 
much,  Abbie.  I  wished,  very  greatly,  that  I  might  sail 
in  her."  It  seemed  to  be  a  relief  to  Eben  that  he  had 
said  it. 

Abbie  looked  up  at  him  in  surprise.  "  Why  should  n't 
you  have  gone,  Eben,  if  you  wanted  to?"  she  asked. 
"The  colonel  would  have  been  glad,  I  am  sure,  to 
have  her  take  a  passenger." 

"Passenger!"  Eben  cried.  "I  would  n't  have  gone 
as  a  passenger.  If  I  had  gone  at  all,  I  should  have 
wished  to  be  one  of  the  crew.  I  have  had  experience." 

"In  what  capacity  would  you  have  gone,  Eben?" 
she  asked  gently.  "Supposing  that  you  had  gone." 

"  In  any  capacity,"  answered  Eben,  almost  passion 
ately.  It  was  painful  to  hear.  "  In  any  capacity,  from 
mate  to  the  greenest  hand  before  the  mast.  I  was  ten 
years  at  sea." 

"Ten  years!"  said  Abbie,  wondering.  "Ten  years, 
and  you  — 

"I  have  been  many  thousand  miles,"  said  Eben, 
simply,  smiling  mournfully  down  at  her ;  "  many  thou 
sand  miles.  They  were  the  happiest  years  of  my  life 
—  and  the  most  trying." 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

They  had  turned  a  corner.  Eben  glanced  up,  and 
his  manner  changed  instantly.  "Some  day,  Abbie. 
Some  day  I  will.  Don't  tell  anybody,"  he  added  hur 
riedly;  "not  anybody.  Here's  Jack." 

201 


OLD   HARBOR 


Abbie  nodded,  partly  to  Eben  and  partly  to  Jack. 
"  Very  well,  Eben,"  she  said,  low.  "I  won't." 

Jack  was  with  them,  his  sketch-book  under  his  arm. 
"  Where  are  you  two  people  going  ?"  he  asked,  smiling. 
"Or  is  it  none  of  my  business?" 

Abbie  smiled  back  at  him.  "  Eben  is  going  home," 
she  said,  "and  I  met  him.  Now,  I  think  I  will  let  him 
go  and  —  but  where  are  you  bound  for  ? " 

Eben  looked  grateful  for  the  announcement ;  he  also 
looked  relieved. 

"I?" said  Jack.  "Why, I  don't  know,  yet.  Wher 
ever  duty  calls,  or  the  spirit  moves  me  to  go.  I  had  n't 
decided.  Out  of  the  town,  somewhere." 

"The  sight  of  a  yellow  cart  would  decide  for  you, 
perhaps?"  Abbie  asked  mischievously. 

Jack  laughed.  "It  might,"  he  said.  "There  is  no 
telling.  But  let  me  tell  you,  in  strict  confidence,  that, 
for  comfort  in  riding,  the  yellow  cart  might  be  improved 
upon.  I  like  to  walk." 

"Well,"  said  Abbie,  "just  as  a  protection,  I  will  go 
a  little  way  with  you  —  two  squares." 

"  Come  on.  That  will  be  lovely.  I  wish  you  would 
go  all  the  way  with  me.  Won't  you  come  too,  Uncle 
Eben?" 

Eben  smiled  gravely.  "Thank  you,  Jack;  I'll  go 
right  home,  I  think."  He  nodded  to  them.  "Good- 

by." 

"Some  day,  soon,  Eben,"  Abbie  said. 
Eben  nodded  again;  he  was  not  noticeably  glad. 
202 


OLD    HARBOR 


Abbie  noticed  that,  and  she  was  surprised  to  find  that 
she  did  not  care.  It  only  amused  her. 

So  Jack  and  Abbie  went  on  gayly,  laughing  and 
talking.  It  would  have  been  impossible  for  those  two 
to  walk  soberly.  Two  squares  beyond,  Abbie  called 
Jack's  attention  to  the  yellow  cart  in  the  distance.  A 
girl  was  driving  and  she  was  alone.  The  cart  was  too 
far  away  for  them  to  be  able  to  recognize  the  girl,  but 
they  could  make  a  pretty  good  guess. 

"Aha!"  cried  Jack.  "My  carriage!  It's  of  no  use 
to  try  to  escape,  and  I  don't  know  that  I  really  want 
to.  I  will  go  to  meet  my  fate." 

Abbie  laughed  at  him.  "Absurd  boy!"  she  said. 
"Well,  go  along." 

So  Jack  went  along,  and  Abbie  turned  in  the  oppo 
site  direction.  She  may  have  just  happened  to  turn 
that  way ;  it  may  have  just  happened  that  the  bank  was 
on  the  next  corner.  I  don't  know.  It  may  have  just 
happened  that  William  Ransome  was  coming  out  of 
the  bank  just  as  Abbie  approached.  That  probably 
did  just  happen.  It  was  great  luck,  whatever  the  rea 
son.  Abbie  particularly  wanted  to  see  William.  He 
was  turning  away,  in  the  direction  in  which  she  was 
going,  and  he  had  not  seen  her.  William  never  did 
see  what  was  before  his  eyes. 

"William,"  Abbie  called  softly. 

He  heard,  and  waited  for  her,  smiling.  It  was  only 
a  few  steps.  Abbie  found  that  William's  smile  was  just 
the  greeting  that  she  had  most  wanted.  She  flushed 

203 


OLD   HARBOR 


prettily,  that  rose-tint  upon  porcelain  that  made  her 
seem  almost  beautiful.  And  the  flush  grew  slowly  and, 
when  it  had  reached  perfect  proportions,  there  it  stayed. 
All  that  Abbie  was  aware  of  was  that  she  was  suddenly 
content. 

"I  wanted  to  see  you,  William,"  she  said,  a  little  out 
of  breath.  "I  —  I  will  go  along  with  you  a  little  way, 
if  you  don't  mind." 

William  smiled  again.  "Mind?"  he  said.  "Of 
course  I  don't  mind.  At  least,  I  don't  object.  I  may 
mind,  more  or  less." 

"Is  that  meant  for  a  pretty  speech,  William?"  she 
asked.  "If  it  is,  I  want  to  thank  you.  I  hear  so  very 
few  pretty  speeches." 

"  So  that  you  don't  recognize  them  when  you  do  hear 
them?"  asked  William.  "You  ought  to  hear  them 
oftener  —  there  is  every  reason  why  you  should.  I 
will  undertake  to  supply  the  demand,  although  mine 
are  not  all  that  could  be  desired."  William  had  not 
meant  to  say  so  much.  He  was  abashed  accordingly. 
"  My  —  my  last  remark  was  intended  for  something 
of  the  kind.  It  was  n't  a  very  successful  attempt." 

Abbie  dropped  a  curtsey  as  well  as  she  could. 
"Thank  you,  William,"  she  said.  "I  shall  hold  you  to 
that  promise."  She  was  breathing  fast.  Her  hurry,  for 
half-a-dozen  steps,  perhaps,  might  have  been  sufficient 
to  account  for  that,  although  Abbie  Mervin  was  sound 
in  wind  and  limb.  She  could  run  much  farther  than 
half-a-dozen  steps  without  breathing  hard. 

204 


OLD    HARBOR 


"Don't  expect  too  much,"  said  William,  "and  I  will 
try  not  to  disappoint  you.  What  —  " 

"Just  let  me  get  my  breath,"  Abbie  interrupted 
hastily.  She  spoke  fast,  as  though  to  gain  time.  "  The 
1  Susan '  sailed  to-day.  Eben  was  down  to  see  her  sail ; 
hiding  somewhere,  no  doubt.  He  distresses  me.  He 
seems  —  '  She  remembered  in  time  and  stopped. 

"I  know,"  William  returned.  "We  wish  that  he 
did  n't  —  that  he  was  n't  so  retiring.  I  have  faith  that 
he'll  get  over  that,  in  time.  He  has  improved  already." 

"  Yes,"  said  Abbie.  She  went  on  to  say  many  things : 
about  Eben  and  Jack  and  Nan  Hedge,  anything  rather 
than  the  thing  that  was  uppermost  in  her  mind,  until 
William  stopped  before  a  door. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Abbie,"  he  said,  "  but  I  have  to  go  in 
here.  Shall  you  be  walking  this  afternoon?" 

Abbie  flushed  again.  "I  think  so,"  she  replied, 
"  about  as  usual.  I  am  bothered,  thinking  about  a  diffi 
culty  a  girl  I  know  is  in.  Perhaps  you  can  help  me." 

She  went  on  to  tell  him  of  her  own  case,  trying  to 
put  it  so  that  he  would  not  suspect.  It  was  easy  to  do 
that,  for  William  was  apt  to  take  things  at  their  face 
value  and  to  have  no  suspicion  that  there  was  anything 
withheld.  He  was  so  straightforward,  himself  —  the 
dear! 

Abbie  made  an  end  of  it,  at  last,  rather  more  out  of 
breath  than  she  had  been  before. 

William  laughed  gently.  "I'm  afraid  my  advice 
would  be  no  help,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know  anything 

205 


OLD    HARBOR 


about  love  affairs.  The  girl  will  have  to  settle  it  with 
her  own  conscience.  But  there's  one  thing,  Abbie," 
he  added  earnestly,  "  that  I  can  say.  She  should  be 
very  sure  of  the  man's  feeling,  not  only  what  it  is  now, 
but  what  it  was  in  the  old  days  that  you  speak  of.  A 
man's  feeling  is  often,  even  generally,  in  such  cases  as 
I  am  thinking  of,  exaggerated  by  —  er  —  by  the  ladies 
concerned  —  and  by  their  mothers  —  until  the  man 
himself  would  never  know  it.  I  know  a  good  many  in 
stances  where  a  man  is  reported  to  have  been  very  much 
in  love  with  a  girl  —  usually  reported  by  her  mother — or 
the  same  as  engaged  to  her,  when  such  a  thing  never 
entered  the  man's  head.  Naturally,  he  says  nothing. 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  the  same  as  engaged.  Either 
they  are  engaged  or  they  are  n't.  A  man,  if  he  is  worth 
having,  knows  enough  to  ask  for  what  he  wants." 

Abbie  seemed  to  droop  a  little.  "Thank  you,  Wil 
liam,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "That  is  worth  know 
ing."  She  turned  and  went  away,  slowly,  leaving 
William  wondering  whether  he  could  have  said  any 
thing  to  hurt  her. 

MacLean  saw  them.  He  seemed  to  see  everything 
that  he  should  n't,  MacLean.  This  tickled  him  im 
mensely.  He  spoke  of  it,  that  same  afternoon,  to  Doc 
tor  Olcott. 

"  Weelliam  Ransome  '11  be  e'en  makkin'  oop  to  Abbie 
Mairvin,"  he  said,  with  an  awkward  kick  of  his  leg, 
and  a  chuckle.  "Is  he  no,  doctor?" 

The  doctor  turned  and  glared  at  him,  making  a  deep 
206 


OLD    HARBOR 


sound  in  his  throat.  "How  the  devil  should  I  know?" 
he  said.  "I  don't  go  about  prying  into  other  people's 
affairs." 

MacLean  was  in  no  wise  put  out  by  this  rebuff.  "  I  'm 
thinkin'  he'll  be,"  he  said.  And  he  muttered  some 
thing  about  a  pair  o'  au'd  fu's. 

Doctor  Olcott  did  not  hear  MacLean's  mutterings. 
He  only  rumbled  in  his  throat  again. 

"An'  there'll  be  Jack  Catherwood  an'  Nan  Hedge," 
continued  MacLean.  "He'll  be — " 

The  doctor  was  in  a  towering  rage,  MacLean  could 
not  see  why.  "Why  shouldn't  he?"  he  growled, 
almost  purple  in  the  face.  "  Why  the  devil  should  n't 
he?  Damn  it,  MacLean!  Very  proper.  Very  proper, 
indeed." 

He  went  out  and  slammed  the  door;  and  got  into 
the  old  buggy  and  drove  the  astonished  Polar  Bear  up 
the  street  on  the  run. 

MacLean  was  glad  he  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ABBIE  had  had  it  out  with  her  conscience.  She  had 
tried  to  quiet  that  unruly  member,  and  had  failed  sig 
nally.  So,  taking  her  courage  in  both  hands  and  trem 
bling  a  little,  she  had  gone  in  to  see  Eben.  As  she  went 
in,  she  was  conscious  of  wishing,  whimsically,  that  her 
conscience  was  less  active.  She  was  even  aware  that  she 
felt  a  certain  reluctance  to  do  what  she  had  made  up 
her  mind  that  she  ought  to  do,  but  she  did  not  stop  to 
analyze  her  feelings.  It  was  her  duty  to  take  this  step, 
and  —  well  —  one's  duty  was  always  more  or  less  dis 
agreeable,  anyway.  She  did  not  go  so  far  as  to  put  this 
thought  into  words;  but  the  idea  was  there,  inchoate. 
And  it  is  to  be  feared  that  she  had  not  considered  her 
duty  to  herself  and  to  anybody  else  who  might  be  af 
fected  by  her  decision.  She  did  not  allow  herself  even 
to  think  that  she  had  a  duty  to  —  to  William.  That 
would  have  been  considered  indelicate,  at  least  by  Har 
riet.  As  for  Abbie,  herself,  she  would  have  been  glad 
if  —  if  —  and  that  is  as  far  as  she  went.  Her  duty  to 
herself,  if  there  was  such  a  thing,  was  of  no  mortal  con 
sequence.  But  her  duty  to  Eben  seemed  clear.  She 
sighed  involuntarily  as  she  went  up  the  familiar  steps. 

Eben  met  her  as  she  went  in.  He  saw  that  she  had 
a  high  color  and  a  determined  look,  as  though  she  had 

208 


OLD    HARBOR 


screwed  her  courage  to  the  sticking- point,  whatever  that 
point  was.  So  far  as  Abbie's  courage  was  concerned, 
Eben  believed  that  any  point  would  be  a  sticking- point. 
So,  although  Abbie's  look  was  kind,  even  inclined  to  be 
tender,  if  determined,  Eben  was  a  little  frightened. 

He  did  not  show  any  signs  of  the  panic  that  was  over 
taking  him.  "Harriet  is  not  back  yet,"  he  said  gently, 
after  greeting  her.  Abbie  had  not  thought  of  greeting. 

"I  wanted  to  see  you,  Eben,"  she  began.  "I  am 
rather  glad  that  Harriet  is  not  back."  She  spoke  with 
out  embarrassment.  "  It  will  be  easier.  Come  into  the 
library." 

Eben's  panic  was  perilously  near;  but  still  he  showed 
no  sign  of  it.  He  led  the  way  into  the  library,  and  Abbie 
seated  herself  on  the  faded  green  sofa,  at  one  end.  Al 
though  the  empty  end  contained  a  very  plain  invita 
tion,  Eben  sat  in  his  chair  by  the  window.  His  face 
would  be  in  shadow,  there. 

"  What  is  it,  Abbie  ?  "  he  asked  quietly. 

Abbie  had  some  difficulty  in  beginning.  There  did 
not  seem  to  be  any  beginning.  She  knew  that  she  ought 
to  have  been  hurt  by  Eben's  taking  that  chair  when  he 
might  have  sat  on  the  sofa  beside  her.  She  knew,  too, 
that  she  was  not  hurt,  but  rather  relieved.  The  know 
ledge  did  not  make  her  duty  any  the  easier. 

"Eben,"  she  said,  at  last,  "you  remember  the  old 
days,  before  you  went  away."  She  spoke  quite  firmly 
and  easily,  now  that  she  had  made  a  beginning.  She 
had  made  up  her  mind  to  it.  "  I  want  you  to  tell  me 

209 


OLD    HARBOR 


the  naked  truth.  You  said,  you  remember,  that  you 
had  forgotten  nothing  —  or  I  think  you  did.  Now  tell 
me,  is  it  true  —  with  all  that  —  that  memory  implies  ?  " 

Eben,  as  he  sat  there,  dreading,  he  did  not  know 
what  —  but  that  is  not  true ;  he  did  know  what  —  Eben, 
I  say,  sitting  there  and  dreading  it,  had  an  inspira 
tion.  He  would  tell  the  naked  truth  —  part  of  it.  It 
would,  at  least,  head  off  the  thing  which  he  dreaded. 

"Abbie,"  he  said,  "I  have  not  forgotten  your  good 
ness  to  me  in  those  days.  I  should  be  glad,  more  than 
I  can  tell,  if  —  if  I  had  done  nothing  to  forfeit  all  claim 
to  it  now.  But,  Abbie,"  he  hesitated  and  seemed  over 
come  with  shame,  "I  —  I  have.  I'm  married."  He 
blurted  it  out  at  last.  "I've  repented,  in  sackcloth  and 
ashes.  My  —  my  wife  was  not  —  is  not,  for  all  I  know 
—  everything  that  could  be  —  " 

"  Eben ! "  Abbie  cried.  "  How  sorry  I  am !  Oh,  how 
sorry  I  am !  Can't  you  —  can't  you  do  anything  about 
it?" 

Eben  laughed  shortly.  "No,"  he  replied.  "I  did 
everything  that  I  could  —  everything,  before  I  left  her. 
That  was  years  ago." 

"Oh!"  said  Abbie,  pityingly. 

"I  suppose  that  I  could  have  got  a  divorce  easily 
enough,"  continued  Eben,  with  no  evidence  of  feeling. 
"  I  thought  of  it,  but  —  but  —  it  would  have  led  to  — 
to  complications.  I  made  up  my  mind  I  did  n't  want 
it." 

"You  don't  want  it  now?"  Abbie  asked. 
210 


OLD    HARBOR 


"No,"  Eben  answered  decidedly.    "I  don't." 

Abbie's  face  had  lost  its  look  of  high  determination. 
She  seemed  the  more  attractive  for  having  lost  it.  In 
her  expression,  as  she  looked  at  Eben,  was  nothing  but 
sympathy;  sympathy  and  something  of  the  maternal 
feeling  that  is  latent  in  all  women.  It  was  less  latent  in 
Abbie  Mervin  than  in  many  women.  Eben  had  got  him 
self  into  trouble  and  she  longed  to  get  him  out  of  it. 

"  It 's  a  shame,  Eben,"  she  cried ;  "  a  wicked  shame  I 
You  deserved  a  good  wife." 

Again  Eben  laughed  shortly.  "  I  got  what  I  deserved, 
I  guess." 

"  You  did  n't,"  said  Abbie,  hotly.  "  You  shan't  say 
such  things  of  yourself.  Why,  I  should  have  been 
glad-" 

"  I  know,  Abbie,"  Eben  said  hastily.  "  I  was  a  fool." 

Abbie  blushed  and  laughed  frankly.  "Well,  there 
is  no  reason  why  I  should  n't  say  it,  now.  I  should  have 
been  glad,  then,  Eben,  and  I  think  that  you  would  have 
been." 

"I  should  have  been,  Abbie,"  said  Eben,  solemnly 
and  very  gently.  "I  said  that  I  was  a  fool." 

"You  were  not  a  fool,  Eben,"  returned  Abbie,  "but 
we  were  both  very  young."  She  was  looking  out  of  the 
window  at  the  row  of  spruces,  apparently;  but  she  was 
not  seeing  them.  The  branches  were  dropping  their 
loads  of  snow,  under  the  warm  sun.  "That  was  a 
good  many  years  ago,"  she  said,  at  last,  thoughtfully, 
as  if  to  herself. 

211 


OLD   HARBOR 


"That  was  a  good  many  years  ago,"  assented  Eben. 
"  There  has  been  time  for  a  good  many  things  to  hap 
pen.  They  have  happened,"  he  added,  with  another 
of  his  short  laughs.  Abbie  did  not  like  to  hear  them, 
for  there  was  no  mirth  in  them. 

"Does  Harriet  know,  Eben?"  she  asked.  "Have 
you  told  her?" 

Eben  shook  his  head.  "Oh,  no,  Abbie,"  he  said; 
"  and  you  must  n't  tell  her.  You  must  n't  tell  anybody. 
I  have  told  you  more  than  I  have  told  anybody  else 
yet.  Some  time  when  I  can  make  up  my  mind  to  do 
it,  I  will  tell  them.  Not  yet,  Abbie,  please;  not  yet." 

"Very  well,  Eben,"  said  Abbie,  gently.  "I  won't. 
You  may  rely  upon  it." 

Miss  Mervin  went  down  the  steps,  a  few  minutes 
later,  her  heart  singing.  Eben  had  seemed  relieved  at 
her  going.  That  made  her  happier  still.  The  world 
seemed  very  bright  to  her;  a  brighter  and  pleasanter 
place  than  it  had  seemed  a  half  hour  before.  She  was 
absurdly  happy.  When  she  came  to  think  of  it,  she  was 
a  little  ashamed  that  she  was  so  happy.  There  were 
a  plenty  of  people  who  were  not  and  —  and  there  did 
not  seem  to  be  any  sufficient  reason  for  her  happiness. 
She  considered  the  matter,  briefly. 

"Well,  I  don't  care,"  she  said,  "I  am." 

She  said  it  to  herself,  quite  recklessly.  No  doubt  she 
felt,  somehow,  that  it  was  ungenerous  in  her  to  be  in 
that  exalted  state  when  there  was  so  much  unhappi- 
ness  in  the  world.  But  happiness  was  a  duty  that  she 

212 


OLD    HARBOR 


owed  to  others;  a  duty  in  which  Miss  Mervin  seldom 
failed;  a  duty  which  was  so  easy,  now,  that  she  had 
some  doubts  of  its  being  a  duty  at  all.  She  considered 
this,  too,  briefly.  She  was  just  coming  to  a  conclusion 
upon  the  matter  of  duties  in  general  and,  in  particular, 
upon  the  question  of  her  own  happiness  as  a  duty,  when 
she  saw  the  Polar  Bear  coming  down  the  street. 

The  Polar  Bear  was  coming  at  a  most  unusual  rate 
of  speed,  for  him;  with  head  and  tail  up  and  wisps  of 
his  long  white  fur  sticking  out  in  every  direction,  he 
seemed  a  very  reckless  and  abandoned  animal.  Al 
though  the  good  doctor  held  the  reins,  it  was  nothing 
but  excess  of  happiness  that  impelled  the  Polar  Bear 
to  such  reckless  speed.  The  doctor  would  never  have 
asked  it  of  him ;  he  would  never  have  driven  him  with 
such  abandon.  Was  he  not  coming  from  Mrs.  Houl- 
ton's  ?  And  had  not  the  doctor  confided  to  Sammy, 
with  many  superfluous  swear  words,  the  fact  that  his 
suit  had  been  successful  ?  "Hola!  We  are  young  again, 
the  doctor  and  I.  Who  dares  to  call  me  a  ramshackle 
skate,  now?" 

Doctor  Olcott  sat  in  the  sleigh,  a  smile  of  mingled 
surprise  and  delight  upon  his  ruddy  face.  When  he 
caught  sight  of  Miss  Mervin,  staring  at  him  from  the 
sidewalk,  he  reined  in  his  fiery  steed. 

"  Whoa,  Sammy !  Whoa,  there !  Damn  it,  I  want  to 
speak  to  Abbie  Mervin.  Don't  you  understand, 
Sammy?" 

Apparently,  Sammy  did  understand,  for  he  was  al- 
213 


OLD  HARBOR 


ready  drawing  in  to  the  curb.  Having  drawn  up  ex 
actly  opposite  the  point  where  Abbie  stood,  Sammy 
looked  around  to  assure  himself  that  the  doctor  was 
attending  to  his  part  of  the  business. 

"  Is  it  a  case  of  life  and  death,  doctor  ?  "  Abbie  asked, 
smiling.  She  knew  very  well  that  it  was  not. 

The  doctor  looked  admiringly  at  Sammy.  "  Is  n't 
it  marvelous?"  he  said.  "I  didn't  suppose  he  had 
it  in  him.  He's  lost  twenty  years  in  the  last  fifteen 
minutes.  The  damned  old  skate ! "  he  added  lovingly. 

Sammy  looked  around,  reproachfully,  at  that,  as  if 
to  say,  "  Just  wait !  Wait  until  you  're  ready  to  start 
again!  Then  I'll  show  you  who's  an  old  skate." 

Abbie  laughed.  "  I  would  n't  call  him  names,  doc 
tor.  He  does  n't  like  it." 

The  doctor  rumbled  a  little  at  that.  "Been  in  to 
Harriet's?"  he  asked.  "Didn't  know  she'd  got 
back." 

"  She  has  n't."  She  blushed  at  the  question.  She 
could  have  choked  herself  for  doing  it.  "Where  are 
you  coming  from  ?  It  's  early  for  you  to  be  through 
your  rounds,  is  n't  it,  at  this  season?" 

"  Not  through,"  growled  the  doctor.  He  had  not  no 
ticed  the  blush.  "  Not  through,  by  a  long  shot.  Have  n't 
begun  yet.  Been  to  see  Mrs.  Houlton."  Doctor  Olcott 
smiled  sheepishly.  "Rebellious  patient.  But  I'll  get 
her  where  I  want  her.  She  '11  have  to  do  as  I  say.  I  'd 
like  to  see  her  refuse.  I  've  —  but  you  '11  hear  it  soon 
enough." 

214 


OLD  HARBOR 


"  May  I  congratulate  you,  doctor,  —  and  Mrs.  Houl- 
ton,  too?"  Abbie  asked. 

"For  what,  Abbie?"  challenged  the  doctor.  "Be 
cause  I'm  going  to  get  her  where  she  can't  flout  me? 
Because  she  '11  have  to  do  what  I  tell  her?  Oh,  well," 
seeing  Abbie 's  smile  broaden,  "  perhaps  you  may.  But 
it's  rather  new  to  me  yet,  Abbie.  I  have  n't  had  time 
to  get  used  to  it." 

"You  deserve  happiness,  if  any  man  ever  did,"  re 
turned  Abbie.  "I  wish  you  as  much  as  you  deserve." 

"Thank  you,  Abbie,  thank  you,"  said  Doctor  OI- 
cott.  "  I  don't  know  whether  an  old  fellow  like  me  can 
make  a  woman  happy.  That  has  been  bothering  me 
in  the  last  few  minutes.  I'll  try.  I'll  try.  But  I  wanted 
to  see  you  to  ask  you  to  go  in  to  see  Hitty  Tilton.  She 
worries  me  a  little.  Got  a  cold  which  she  can't  seem 
to  throw  off.  It  's  nothing  to  be  worried  about,  but 
Hitty 's  an  old  woman,  Abbie.  Go  in  to  see  them  both, 
will  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  will.   I  '11  go  this  afternoon." 

"Knew  you  would,"  growled  the  doctor.  "Knew 
you  would.  Good-by.  Get  along,  Sammy." 

Sammy,  who  had  been  waiting  for  this  chance, 
whirled  the  doctor  off  in  a  cloud  of  flying  snow.  The 
doctor,  in  his  surprise,  let  out  a  shout,  like  the  great 
overgrown  boy  that  he  was.  It  is  a  pity  that  there  are 
not  more  overgrown  boys  in  the  world.  They  are  stimu 
lating  to  others  as  well  as  to  their  Sammys. 

Abbie  watched  the  cloud  of  snow  raised  by  Sammy's 
215 


OLD  HARBOR 


flying  hoofs  and  by  the  warped  runners  of  the  doctor's 
old  sleigh ;  watched  it  until  it  disappeared  around  a  cor 
ner.  Then  she  turned  and  rambled  on.  Rambled  is 
the  word.  She  seemed  to  be  going  nowhere  in  particu 
lar  and,  in  consequence,  she  soon  found  herself  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  bank.  And  she  looked  up,  in  — 
no,  not  in  surprise ;  she  was  not  surprised  that  she  should 
be  in  that  neighborhood.  It  was  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world.  She  was  absorbed  in  her  happiness  and 
• —  and  William  —  and,  having  got  that  far  in  her 
thoughts,  she  was  very  much  ashamed.  She  had  a  high 
color  and  her  mouth  was  set  firmly  as  she  turned  about, 
resolutely,  and  set  off,  as  straight  as  she  could  go,  for 
the  Tiltons'. 

But  she  saw  William.  They  had  been  accustomed 
to  take  a  walk  together  in  the  late  afternoon.  It  was 
a  practice  of  not  very  long  standing,  and  had  grown 
fast,  as  such  practices  do.  At  first,  it  was  purely  acci 
dental.  They  had  happened  to  meet,  after  William's 
day's  work  at  the  bank  was  done,  and  he,  having  no 
thing  in  particular  to  do,  had  walked  with  her.  Abbie 
had  been  glad  enough  of  his  company.  In  spite  of  the 
fact  that  she  had  known  him  all  her  life,  she  was  just 
beginning  to  find  out  how  much  of  interest  there  was 
in  his  life,  which  his  quiet  manner  had  not  led  her  to 
suspect,  before  —  his  manner  and  his  long  devotion  to 
Harriet.  For  ten  years  or  more,  he  had  as  much  as  been 
labeled  "Taken."  Now  she  had  found  that  it  was  time 
for  the  label  to  be  removed;  he  had  as  much  as  said 

216 


OLD  HARBOR 


so.  She  was  discovering  him  afresh;  something  that 
Harriet  would  not  have  done  —  could  not  have  done  — 
in  a  lifetime  of  intimacy. 

Then  the  meetings  had  been  by  a  sort  of  subcon 
scious  design,  perhaps,  on  the  part  of  each  of  them. 
If  they  failed  to  meet  and  walk  together,  either  be 
cause  of  some  unforeseen  engagement  of  Abbie's  or 
because  the  bank  claimed  William  longer  than  usual, 
they  were  both  restless  and  dissatisfied  for  the  rest  of 
the  day.  William,  when  he  did  get  out,  at  last,  was 
apt  to  moon  about  in  a  morose  state  until  supper-time, 
not  quite  knowing  what  was  the  matter  with  him.  It 
is  to  be  supposed  that  Abbie  was  similarly  affected, 
for  she  would  generally  manage  to  see  him  on  his 
way  down  town  the  next  morning  and  give  or  receive 
an  explanation,  whichever  the  case  required. 

There  was  no  pretense  of  accident  in  their  meetings 
now.  William  found  Abbie  walking  to  and  fro  on  their 
corner  and  he  smiled  contentedly.  Abbie  waited  for 
him  to  come  up. 

"Abbie,"  he  said,  without  other  greeting,  "let's 
•walk  out  on  the  old  Boston  road.  It's  quiet  there." 

She  could  not  help  laughing.  "As  if  it  were  not 
quiet  anywhere  in  Old  Harbor !  And  it 's  almost  dark 
now.  All  right,  William,"  she  added  hastily,  seeing 
symptoms  of  distress  on  William's  part,  "I'll  go, 
with  pleasure.  I  have  not  the  least  objection  in  the 
world.  I  only  wanted  to  call  your  attention  to  the 
obvious." 

217 


OLD  HARBOR 


William  laughed  too.  "No  doubt  I  need  it,"  said 
he.  "  I  know  my  failings,  some  of  them.  But  there  's 
always  some  light,  with  snow  on  the  ground  —  as 
much  as  we  shall  need,  and  the  snow's  not  deep.  If  we 
find  it  hard  walking,  we  can  come  back." 

"  Calling  my  attention  to  the  obvious,  too,  William  ?" 
asked  Abbie. 

They  both  laughed  again,  contentedly,  and  walked 
on  in  silence.  They  had  no  need  to  say  anything. 

It  was  dusk  when  Abbie  spoke  again.  The  street 
lamps  were  just  being  lighted,  and  they  met  the  belated 
lamplighter  hurrying  about  with  his  ladder  on  his 
shoulder. 

"William,"  she  asked,  apropos  of  nothing  in  par 
ticular  except  her  thoughts  and  of  William's,  as  it 
chanced,  "are  you  writing  anything  now?" 

"It  is  safe  to  assume,"  answered  William,  "that  I 
am  always  writing  something;  or  I  am  trying  to.  It  is, 
like  all  bad  habits,  almost  impossible  to  shake  off." 

Abbie  gave  a  little  cry.  "But,  Wrilliam,"  she  said, 
"  surely  you  are  not  trying  to  shake  it  off ! " 

"No,"  replied  William,  quietly,  "I  am  not  trying 
very  hard.  But  everything  that  I  do  falls  so  far  short 
of  my  wish  —  of  my  intention  when  I  planned  it  — 
that  I  am  tempted.  I  shan't,  Abbie.  The  habit  has 
me  fast." 

"  I  am  glad,"  she  said.  "  It  would  be  simply  wricked 
even  to  think  of  giving  it  up.  As  to  your  finished  sto 
ries  falling  short  of  your  desire,  —  that  is  a  hopeful 

218 


OLD  HARBOR 


sign,  is  n't  it  ?  When  a  man's  aim  is  no  higher  than  his 
performance,  his  condition  is  pretty  nearly  hopeless. 
And,"  she  added,  with  a  little  laugh,  "  I  have  no  fault 
to  find  with  the  finished  product." 

"Thank  you,  Abbie,"  said  William. 

"I  wonder  that  you  have  never  tried  to  get  them 
published,"  she  continued.  "Why  have  n't  you?" 

"Too  bashful,  Abbie;  I  could  n't  bear  the  disap 
pointment  of  having  my  things  returned." 

"Fiddlesticks!"  said  Abbie. 

She  did  not  pursue  the  subject  further.  William 
seemed  curiously  reluctant  to  talk  about  his  writing. 
She  would  have  liked  to  ask  him  what  he  was  doing 
now,  but  she  knew  very  well  that  he  would  only  put 
her  off  with  an  evasive  answer,  and  she  did  not  want 
to  risk  the  evasion.  She  wished  that  she  bore  such  a 
relation  to  William  that  he  would  feel  like  talking  freely ; 
that  she  had  the  right  to  ask  —  and,  at  the  thought, 
she  found  herself  blushing  furiously  in  the  darkness. 
But  William  could  not  see. 

"William,"  she  said  softly. 

William  turned  toward  her,  with  a  start.  "  What  is 
it,  Abbie?"  he  asked. 

Abbie  laughed.  "Thinking  about  your  new  story, 
whatever  it  is  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  was,"  he  confessed.  "I  beg  your  pardon. 
But  you  gave  me  a  start." 

"  Oh,  you  have  my  permission  to  think  about  your 
stories  as  much  as  you  like  when  you  are  with  me," 

219 


OLD  HARBOR 


she  said.  "I  shall  not  be  offended.  I'm  going  to  give 
you  some  material,  which  you  are  at  liberty  to  use, 
properly  disguised." 

"  It  would  be  well  disguised,"  said  William,  laugh 
ing,  "  if  I  used  it.  You  would  never  recognize  it.  What 
is  it  ?  " 

"You  remember,  William,"  she  said,  "that  you 
gave  me  some  advice,  the  other  day,  for  the  guidance 
of  a  girl  that  I  know ?"  William  assented.  "Well,  that 
girl  —  girl  by  courtesy  —  was  I." 

"I  knew  that,  of  course,  Abbie,"  said  he,  gently. 
"Did  your  conscience  impel  you?" 

"  It  did.  I  went  to  see  him  this  morning."  She  had 
taken  William's  arm.  It  was  quite  dark  now,  except 
for  the  faint  light  from  the  sky  and  the  snow.  They 
had  left  the  dimly  lighted  streets  behind  them  and  were 
at  the  Old  Green.  They  were  even  able  to  see  the  little 
old  house  with  the  sagging  roof  and  the  great  chimney 
in  the  middle  of  it. 

"Oh,"  said  William;  "and  Eben  —  what  did  he 
say?" 

There  was  a  strange  absence  of  personal  interest  on 
William's  part.  At  least,  it  seemed  strange  to  Abbie. 
If  it  were  his  case,  now,  and  she  were  listening,  waiting 
to  know  whether  some  other  woman  was  to  have  him 
or  not  —  well,  she  would  not  be  so  uninterested ;  her 
heart  would  be  in  her  throat.  The  evening  had  sud 
denly  grown  chill.  There  was  nothing  attractive  in  the 
dim  Old  Green  lying  there  under  the  stars;  nothing 

220 


OLD  HARBOR 


beautiful  in  the  old  post-road  that  stretched  away  into 
the  darkness;  nothing  lovely  in  the  ghostlike  outlines 
of  the  old  house  with  its  sagging  roof  and  its  single 
lighted  window.  The  world  was  a  cold  place,  in  which 
it  was  always  winter. 

"  Of  course  you  knew  that  it  was  Eben,"  she  said. 
"Perhaps  you  know  what  he  said,  too."  She  spoke 
with  some  bitterness. 

William  laughed ;  looked  at  her  and  laughed.  "  How 
absurd,  Abbie ! "  he  said.  "  Do  you  want  me  to  guess  ?  " 

"No,"  she  replied.  "I  will  save  you  the  trouble. 
Eben  would  not  have  me.  He  did  n't  let  me  get  to  the 
point  of  asking  him,  but  he  made  it  clear.  Eben  is  a 
gentleman  —  " 

"  Of  course  he  is,"  William  interrupted  impatiently. 

"Of  course  he  is,"  Abbie  agreed.  "There  was  a 
reason  why  it  was  impossible.  He  told  me  the  reason, 
but  I  promised  not  to  tell." 

"Was  Eben's  reason  a  good  one?"  asked  William. 
He  did  not  seem  to  care  about  knowing  what  the 
reason  was.  To  be  sure,  Abbie  had  said  that  she  had 
promised ;  but  —  but  if  he  had  urged  her  —  she  was 
prepared  to  tell  him.  In  her  secret  heart,  she  knew 
it.  He  did  not  urge. 

"  It  was  a  good  one,"  answered  Abbie ;  "  excellent. 
It  was  the  best  of  reasons."  And  there  she  left  it. 
William  might  draw  what  inference  he  pleased.  If  he 
inferred  that  Eben  did  not  care  for  her,  why,  he  might 
not  be  far  wrong.  "  Let's  turn  around.  I  find  it  colder 

221 


OLD  HARBOR 


than  I  thought  it  would  be.  When  I  came  out  of  the 
Joyces'  this  morning,"  she  added  irrelevantly,  it 
seemed  —  what  could  that  have  to  do  with  it 's  being 
cold ?  —  "I  was  overjoyed.  I  had  satisfied  my  con 
science  —  and  —  and  Eben  had  done  what  I  hoped 
he  would,  I  found." 

William  laughed  again.  "Aren't  you  overjoyed 
now?"  asked  William.  But  he  did  not  speak  softly, 
as  he  might  have  done  if  —  if  — 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  am  not.  I  must  turn  around 
here,  William." 

William  was  puzzled.  "  Why,  Abbie,  what's  got  into 
you  ?  Just  as  we  've  got  to  the  beginning  of  our  walk ! 
There's  light  enough." 

"Well,  there's  light  enough  if  this  is  all  the  light  you 
want.  I  like  more  light.  And  the  cold's  got  into  me, 
I  guess." 

William  sighed,  but  he  turned  around  obediently. 
He  tried  to  talk;  but  Abbie  answered  him  in  mono 
syllables  or  not  at  all.  They  were  walking  faster  than 
when  they  came.  He  gave  up  trying,  soon,  and  they 
walked  on  in  silence. 

Abbie  was  busied  with  her  own  thoughts.  They  were 
not  altogether  pleasant  ones.  She  had  realized,  with 
a  shock,  what  was  the  reason  of  the  sudden  change  in 
her  feelings  and  why  she  had  been  so  absurdly  happy 
that  morning.  She  knew  now,  —  she  could  not  dis 
guise  it,  —  that  she  had  given  William  an  opportunity, 
a  great  opportunity,  and  he  had  not  only  failed  to  avail 

222 


OLD  HARBOR 


himself  of  it,  but  he  did  not  even  know  that  it  had  been 
given.  No  man,  she  thought  bitterly,  could  fail  to 
be  aware  of  a  chance  like  that,  if  he  wanted  it.  She 
may  have  been  wrong  in  that.  William  Ransome  was 
William  Ransome.  And  she  had  the  feeling  that  she 
had  been  disloyal  to  Harriet.  The  fact  that  William's 
attitude  towards  Harriet  was  pretty  well  understood, 
at  least,  by  William  and  by  her,  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  matter.  His  attitude  was  beginning  to  be  under 
stood  by  Harriet  herself.  Poor  Harriet! 

At  her  own  gate,  Abbie  bade  William  good-night, 
and  would  have  left  him  rather  abruptly ;  but  he  was 
solicitous. 

"I  hope  you  have  n't  caught  cold,  Abbie,"  he  said 
anxiously.  "I  don't  see  how  you  could  have,  but 
I  don't  see  how  I  can  account  for  it  in  any  other 
way." 

"  You  don't  have  to  account  for  it,  William,"  Abbie 
replied  indifferently.  "Not  that  I  know  what  'it'  is." 
She  repented  instantly.  "It's  nothing,  William.  I've 
had  rather  a  trying  day,  I  suppose.  Being  refused, 
virtually  refused,  by"  —  she  had  almost  said  two  men, 
but  she  caught  herself  in  time  —  "  by  Eben  is  enough, 
one  would  think." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  William,  slowly,  "  that  you 
should  have  thought  you  had  to  go  through  with  such 
an  experience.  But  —  but  I  gathered  that  you  did  not 
regret  the  result.  You  would  hardly  have  told  me  of  it, 
if  you  did." 

223 


OLD  HARBOR 


Abbie  smiled  a  very  little.  "  No,  no,  I  don't  regret 
it.  I  am  glad,  I  think.  Good-night,  William." 

"We  shall  have  our  walk,  to-morrow?"  asked  Wil 
liam,  still  somewhat  anxiously. 

Abbie  sighed.  "Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  she  answered, 
turning  away.  "Good-night." 

"Good-night,  Abbie,"  said  William.  He  watched 
her  as  she  went  slowly  up  the  walk.  Then  he  turned 
away,  too,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders.  "  Well,"  he 
remarked  to  himself  and  to  the  night  in  general,  "I 
don't  understand  'em." 

There's  many  another  man,  William,  has  said  the 
same  thing. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WILLIAM  RANSOME  did  not  find  that  he  understood 
'em  any  better  as  the  winter  went  on,  although  he 
made  many  an  honest  effort  to  that  end.  But  he  had 
reached  the  stage  of  "  taking  notice."  Abbie  Mervin 
was  straightforward  and  truthful,  both  in  word  and 
in  act;  but  she  was  a  woman,  and  she  backed  and 
filled,  as  the  best  of  women  will,  just  enough  to  keep 
William  guessing.  And  William  kept  guessing,  in 
spite  of  himself,  and  found  it  more  and  more  difficult 
to  write.  That  bothered  him,  too.  He  needed  a  free 
mind  for  that,  and  a  free  mind  was  just  what  he  could 
not  have,  under  the  circumstances. 

If  it  had  been  the  case  of  another  man,  now,  William 
would  have  been  able  to  recognize  the  symptoms  right 
away.  If,  for  instance,  it  had  been  Jack  Catherwood 
who  was  being  led  on  by  Nan  Hedge,  William  would 
have  watched  the  pretty  game  with  amusement.  In 
deed,  he  did  watch  that  game  with  amusement;  an 
amusement  which  was  shared,  apparently,  by  both  of 
the  players  and  by  all  their  friends.  It  would  be  more 
truthful,  perhaps,  to  say  that  all  of  Jack's  friends  were 
amused,  for  it  was  by  no  means  certain  that  Nan  had 
any.  But  Nan  plied  all  her  arts  transparently,  and 
Jack  knew  them  for  arts  and  smiled  at  them.  The  fact 

225 


OLD  HARBOR 


that  they  were  transparent  was  no  small  part  of  their 
attractiveness ;  which,  it  is  to  be  supposed,  Nan  knew 
very  well. 

At  any  rate,  however  that  may  be,  Nan  devoted  her 
self,  heart  and  soul,  to  the  task.  Jack,  who  was  young 
enough  to  like  to  play  the  game  for  the  game's  sake, 
devoted  himself  to  it  with  equal  ardor,  so  far  as  any 
one  could  see.  It  was  to  be  hoped  that  Nan  was  not 
practicing  other  arts  that  were  not  transparent  at  all. 
Perhaps  Nan  was  not  practicing  arts ;  it  is  conceivable 
that  she  was  merely  following  her  impulses  as  truly  as 
Abbie  was.  But  all  that  any  one  in  Old  Harbor  knew 
of  her  history  and  antecedents  was  not  in  favor  of  that 
hypothesis.  It  may  be  objected  that  nobody  in  Old 
Harbor  knew  anything  of  Nan's  history.  That  fact 
would  not  have  affected  their  opinion.  It  never  did, 
in  any  case  that  I  ever  heard  of. 

Mrs.  Catherwood,  at  least,  was  not  inclined  to  take 
the  charitable  view.  Knowing  that  Jack  went  to  see 
Nan  regularly  now,  and  twice  a  week  at  that,  —  Jack 
made  no  secret  of  it,  —  she  became  more  and  more 
worried.  It  was  of  no  use  to  remonstrate  with  Jack; 
he  only  laughed  at  her  fears,  which  were  but  very 
thinly  veiled.  The  colonel  was  nearly  as  bad.  She  had 
spoken  to  him  about  it  several  times,  without  result. 
She  tried  it  again,  one  night  toward  the  end  of  Feb 
ruary.  They  had  gone  upstairs,  after  waiting  for  Jack. 
Jack  had  not  been  late ;  he  never  was  late.  One  would 
have  thought  that  Mrs.  Catherwood  could  just  as  well 

226 


OLD  HARBOR 


have  chosen  another  time  for  her  communication.  But, 
curiously  enough,  she  was  apt  to  choose  bedtime  for  the 
discussion  of  any  matter  that  worried  her,  unconscious, 
apparently,  that  she  could  not  have  chosen  a  worse 
time.  If  the  matter  in  question  worried  the  colonel, 
he  might  not  be  able  to  sleep.  A  man  does  not  want 
to  have  to  think  of  things  that  may  worry  him,  when 
he  is  about  to  go  to  bed.  He  wants  to  go  to  sleep;  to 
have  his  mind  sponged  clean  of  everything  that  may, 
by  any  chance,  interfere  with  his  accomplishment  of 
that  desired  end  as  quickly  as  possible.  It  will  be 
time  enough  to  consider  such  things  in  the  morning, 
when  his  brain  is  fresh  and  cleared  for  action.  But 
that  is  just  the  trouble.  The  thing  that  gives  his  wife 
so  much  concern  at  night  may  not  trouble  her  spirit 
at  all  in  the  morning.  She  must  get  it  off  her  mind 
while  it  worries  her. 

"Frank,"  began  Mrs.  Catherwood,  "I  wish  that 
Jack  did  n't  go  to  that  Hedge  girl's  so  often." 

The  colonel  did  very  little  worrying;  none  at  all 
about  Jack.  He  did  not  mind  her  speaking  of  it. 

"Well,  Polly,  dear,"  he  replied,  "if  it  bothers  you, 
I  wish  he  did  n't."  He  removed  his  necktie  in  his  usual 
leisurely  fashion,  folded  it  carefully,  and  laid  it  on  his 
bureau. 

"It  does  bother  me,"  she  said.  "You  know,"  she 
added,  after  a  pause,  during  which  the  colonel  had  said 
nothing  at  all,  "she  sent  him  a  perfectly  absurd  valen 
tine  a  few  days  ago.  At  least,  I  am  sure  she  sent  it." 

227 


OLD  HARBOR 


"Why  are  you  sure?"  the  colonel  asked. 

"There  is  no  one  else  who  would  get  anything  so 
expensive  for  a  valentine.  Of  course  it  was  absolutely 
useless." 

The  colonel  laughed.  "Harmless  play,"  he  re 
marked  serenely.  "I  don't  know  of  anybody  who  is 
better  able  to  spend  money  for  expensive  and  useless 
things  than  that  Hedge  girl." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Catherwood,  smiling  and  sighing 
at  once,  "  it  may  be  harmless,  but  it  does  n't  strike 
me  so." 

"Polly,  dear,"  observed  the  colonel,  "it  occurs  to 
me  to  ask  whether  you  know  Miss  Nan  Hedge." 

"No,  I  don't,"  she  confessed.   "Do  you?" 

The  colonel  laughed  again.  "  No,"  he  said.  "  I  have 
to  acknowledge  that  I  have  neglected  what  may  appear 
to  be  an  obvious  duty  towards  my  prospective  daughter- 
in-law." 

"Don't  make  a  joke  of  it,  Frank,   It  is  n't  a  joke." 

"Well,  I  won't.  But,  Polly,  don't  you  think  that 
you  might,  at  least,  scrape  up  a  little  personal  acquaint 
ance  with  her  before  you  condemn  her  utterly  ? " 

"  Frank,  why  do  you  take  sides  with  her  ?  Has  she 
bewitched  you,  too?" 

The  corners  of  the  colonel's  mouth  were  twitching. 
"  No,  she  has  not.  I  would  not  be  worth  her  while,  of 
course,"  he  answered  gently.  "And  I  am  not  taking 
sides  with  her.  But  fairness,  plain  fairness,  seems  to 
require  that  you  should  know  her  before  passing  judg- 

228 


OLD  HARBOR 


ment  on  her.  You  are  undermining  our  free  institu 
tions,  Polly,  if  you  don't.  A  man  is  entitled  to  be  heard 
in  his  own  defense,  and  shall  a  woman  have  less  ? 
Never!"  The  colonel  waved  a  sock.  " She  is  even  en 
titled,  by  one  of  the  fundamentals  of  our  free  institu 
tions,  to  a  trial  by  a  jury  of  her  peers;  which,  in  this 
case,  would  necessarily  consist  of  twelve  women.  But," 
he  continued  reflectively,  "  if  I  were  she,  I  should  pray 
to  be  delivered  from  the  judgment  of  twelve  women. 
I  am  not  talking  for  publication,"  he  added  hastily. 

Mrs.  Catherwood  laughed.  "I  should  think  not. 
I  don't  know  what  the  women  would  do  to  you." 

"Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart,"  the 
colonel  remarked. 

"  That  would  n't  be  a  circumstance  to  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Catherwood.  "I  should  probably  have  to  join  them, 
for  the  sake  of  my  principles.  You  can  be  very  absurd, 
Frank.  But  I'll  go  and  call  on  Nan  Hedge  within  a 
few  days,  although  that  is  just  what  she  wants,  likely 
enough.  It  will  seem  like  stamping  the  affair  with  my 
approval.  But  I'll  go." 

"  If  you  are  of  the  same  opinion  still,"  said  the  colo 
nel,"  I  may  have  a  scheme  that  will  relieve  your  mind. 
My  scheme  is  not  worked  out  yet,  or  I  would  unfold  it 
to  you." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

NAN  HEDGE  was  driving  in  a  very  smart  Russian 
sledge.  She  was  driving  at  a  breakneck  speed,  to  the 
great  discomfort  and  surprise  of  her  horse,  and  she 
was  alone,  to  MacLean's  great  surprise,  apparently. 
He  stood  in  his  door,  as  she  passed ;  not  an  unusual 
place  for  him,  with  business  as  slack  as  it  was. 

"Ho,  ho,"  he  cried  softly,  to  himself.  "She  canna 
find  him.  She'll  be  in  an  ill  temper,  na  doubt." 

Nan  was  in  an  ill  temper,  if  one  could  judge  by  the 
little  that  could  be  seen  of  the  face  under  her  veil.  But 
she  did  not  stop  for  MacLean ;  she  did  not  stop  for 
anything.  If  she  was  looking  for  him,  whoever  "he" 
was,  it  was  dollars  to  buttons  that  she  would  find  him 
before  she  got  through.  Nan  was  not  easily  turned 
aside  from  her  purpose,  and  it  was  apparent  to  the 
most  casual  observer  that  she  had  a  purpose.  She 
turned  into  the  road  that  led  to  the  old  shipyard,  still 
at  the  same  reckless  speed.  There  was  no  speed  limit 
yet  placed  upon  horses  in  Old  Harbor;  indeed,  there 
was  no  speed  limit  on  anything,  for  motor-cars  had  not 
penetrated  its  seclusion.  She  came  in  sight  of  the  ship 
yard  and  pulled  the  wheezing  horse  to  a  walk,  while 
she  carefully  scanned  its  whiteness.  The  old  scaffold 
ing  loomed  more  skeleton-like  than  ever. 

230 


OLD  HARBOR 


"Not  there,"  she  murmured.  "Well,  get  up!"  She 
emphasized  the  command  with  a  swish  of  the  whip. 

The  horse  was  startled,  as  any  well-brought-up  horse 
would  have  been.  He  jumped,  snapping  Nan  hard 
against  the  back  of  the  sledge,  and  began  to  run. 

Nan  was  not  frightened.  "Oh,  no,  you  don't,"  she 
said.  "Oh,  no."  She  got  a  good  hold  of  the  reins, 
and  she  sawed  him  down  to  a  trot.  "There!  Durn 
you!" 

She  turned  him  into  a  cross-road  and  came  out  at  the 
Old  Green;  then  went  on,  past  Mrs.  Loughery's,  on 
the  old  stage-road.  Suddenly  she  pulled  the  horse  up 
short  and  gave  a  low  laugh  of  satisfaction.  It  was  a 
pleasant  laugh  to  hear.  I  should  have  been  glad,  I 
am  sure,  to  hear  it  and  to  know  that  it  was  for  me. 
There  is  no  reason  to  think  that  the  young  man  who 
was  seated  on  a  big  stone  on  the  sunny  side  of  the 
wall  was  any  less  glad  than  I  should  have  been.  It 
was  a  very  ancient  stone  wall,  overgrown  with  grass 
to  its  very  top,  its  chinks  all  filled  with  sods  that  had, 
no  doubt,  been  formed  from  the  dust  of  more  than 
two  hundred  years.  For  it  was  on  the  line  of  the 
old  stages;  and  two  express  stages  a  day,  each  way, 
can  raise  a  deal  of  dust,  even  from  the  hard  back  of 
that  old  road.  There  was  snow  on  the  old  wall,  now, 
in  patches,  and  the  stones  peeped  through,  here  and 
there.  The  young  man  had  been  sketching,  and  the 
wall  made  a  good  foreground.  He  looked  up  at  the 
sudden  stopping  of  the  bells  and  at  that  low  laugh. 

231 


OLD  HARBOR 


"Well,  Jack!"  Nan  said.  She  was  leaning  forward 
in  the  sledge  and  smiling.  "Well,  Jack,"  she  said 
again. 

"Why,  Nan!"  he  exclaimed.  "Just  wait  until  I 
get  my  things  together."  He  began  to  gather  up  his 
things  and  stuff  them  into  his  pockets. 

"I've  been  all  over  the  township,  looking  for  you, 
Jack,"  said  Nan,  then.  "I've  no  doubt  that  I've  af 
forded  amusement  enough  for  all  the  MacLeans  in  the 
country.  But  I  don't  care  if  I  have.  Do  you?"  she 
added ;  and  she  looked  away,  as  if  embarrassed.  Nan 
was  not  embarrassed  —  not  in  the  least,  but  she  knew 
that  she  ought  to  seem  so. 

Jack  laughed.  "I  don't  if  you  don't,  Nan,"  he  an 
swered.  She  threw  back  the  robe  and  made  room  for 
him  beside  her.  Jack  noticed  the  steaming  horse. 
"What's  the  matter  with  your  horse?" 

Nan  laughed  shortly.  "  Oh,  he  started  to  run,"  she 
said,  "  but  he  changed  his  mind.  Naturally,  he's  rather 
heated." 

"  Run  away  with  you,  Nan  ?  "  asked  Jack,  concerned. 
As  may  be  guessed,  his  concern  pleased  her  mightily. 

"That  seemed  to  be  his  idea,"  she  replied.  "I'll 
let  him  walk,  going  back,  until  he's  cooled  off.  It 
won't  hurt  him." 

"  Yes,"  said  Jack,  "let  him  walk,  by  all  means.  I 
would  n't  have  any  harm  come  to  him." 

They  both  laughed  at  Jack's  speech,  although  it  is 
difficult  to  see  what  there  was  in  it  to  laugh  at.  The 

232 


OLD  HARBOR 


sledge  was  turned  around  carefully,  —  Nan  did  not 
wish  to  break  her  harness  or  her  shafts,  just  then,  — 
and  the  horse,  still  steaming,  began  to  walk  slowly 
toward  town.  As  they  went,  they  talked  in  low  voices, 
and  smiled  and  joked  about  things  that  were  of  no 
manner  of  interest  in  the  world,  even  to  each  other. 
They  might  as  well  have  said  that  it  was  a  beautiful 
day,  over  and  over.  Nobody  would  have  disputed  it. 
Nobody  would  have  disputed  it  if  they  had  said  that  it 
was  cold  and  raw  and  chilly  and  generally  miserable  — 
which  it  was  not.  What  they  said  was  not  important, 
but  the  fact  that  they  were  saying  it  to  each  other  was 
important;  so  was  their  manner  of  saying  it.  At  last, 
Nan  spoke  of  the  sketching  and  asked,  jokingly,  when 
Jack  meant  to  begin  his  study  in  Paris. 

Jack  did  not  joke.  "I  wish  I  could,  Nan,"  he  said, 
sighing.  "I  wish  I  could.  But  I  can't ;  at  least,  not  yet." 
He  smiled  rather  wistfully.  "  Did  you  mean  to  insin 
uate  that  I  need  the  study  —  that  my  sketches  showed 
it?  I  flattered  myself  that  they  were  rather  good." 

"I  meant,"  Nan  replied,  "as  you  know,  that  they 
are  so  good  that  it  seems  a  pity  you  should  n't  go  as 
far  as  you  can." 

Jack  flushed.    "Thank  you,  Nan." 

Nan  was  leaning  out,  looking  down  at  the  runner. 
"I  don't  want  you  to  go  away  to  Paris,  Jack,"  she 
cried  softly. 

"Thank  you  for  that,  too,  Nan,"  said  Jack. 
Nan  looked  up  quickly  and  laughed.    After  that 
233 


OLD  HARBOR 


they  said  little,  and  Jack  wanted  to  get  out  at  a  certain 
corner,  for  he  said  that  he  had  to  go  to  the  office. 

"  A  lot  of  need  there  is  for  you  to  be  at  the  office ! " 
Nan  cried  impatiently.  "But  I'll  leave  you  at  your 
corner  and  go  in  to  see  Miss  Hitty  and  Miss  Susie. 
Shall  I  give  them  your  love  ?"  As  Nan  asked  the  ques 
tion,  there  was  a  mischievous  twinkle  in  the  eyes 
behind  the  veil,  but  her  lips  did  not  smile. 

Jack  smiled,  though.  "  If  you  think  it  best,  Nan," 
he  said. 

The  Tilton  girls  occupied  two  spacious  rooms  in 
another  old  square  house.  Every  house  in  Old  Harbor 
that  made  any  pretensions  to  dignity  was  square,  and 
this  one,  in  addition,  was  built  of  old  English  bricks. 
To  be  sure,  the  Tiltons  had  to  go  up  two  flights  of  stairs 
before  getting  to  their  rooms,  and  going  upstairs  was 
not  so  easy  for  them  as  it  had  been ;  but  the  stairs  were 
easy  and  wide,  and  had  a  fine  rail  of  mahogany,  well 
polished  by  much  use.  After  all,  there  was  some  ad 
vantage  in  having  rooms  at  the  top  of  the  house.  They 
were  low-ceiled,  of  course,  as  all  rooms  of  their  period 
were,  above  the  second  floor;  but  their  situation,  in 
the  front  of  the  house,  with  no  stairs  going  up  from  the 
hall,  gave  them  an  atmosphere  of  privacy  and  seclu 
sion  which  the  two  old  ladies  valued  highly. 

The  Tilton  girls  were  sitting  at  the  windows  of  one 
of  their  rooms.  To  be  exact,  it  was  Miss  Susie's  room ; 
but  the  bed  and  the  bureau  and  the  washstand  were 
tucked  out  of  sight  behind  screens  toward  the  back. 

234 


OLD  HARBOR 


It  was  a  somewhat  difficult  matter  to  tuck  all  that  fur 
niture  out  of  sight,  for  the  pieces  were  not  small.  The 
bed,  indeed,  utterly  refused  to  be  tucked,  for  it  was  an 
ancient  and  massive  four-poster,  with  carved  posts  and 
a  canopy.  And  it  looked  out  from  behind  its  futile 
screens  in  fine  scorn.  But  the  room  was  not  small, 
either,  and  the  rest  of  the  bedroom  furniture  was  not 
obtrusive.  There  was  enough,  of  a  different  sort,  in 
front  of  it  to  distract  the  eye  and  forbid  its  seeing  too 
far ;  for  the  front  of  the  room  was  furnished  as  a  par 
lor  or  a  sitting-room  or  a  sewing-room,  according  to  the 
taste  and  preference  of  the  observer. 

There  were  sewing-tables  and  a  writing-table  and  a 
centre-table  and  a  fine  old  chess-table  and  a  large  book 
case  filled  with  books  and  other  tables,  wherever  room 
could  be  found  for  them,  against  the  wall ;  indeed,  there 
were  tables  where  one  would  think  it  impossible  to  find 
room.  They  supplemented  the  screens,  in  their  office 
of  screening,  most  excellently;  but,  with  the  chairs, 
they  filled  the  room  so  completely  that  navigation 
among  the  different  pieces  of  furniture  was  more  than 
a  little  difficult.  Miss  Susie,  with  her  near-sighted  eyes, 
and  her  glasses  that  were  forever  falling  off  and  being 
replaced,  was  continually  upsetting  some  one  of  the 
more  delicate  pieces  and  bruising  herself  against  those 
which  refused  to  give  way  before  her.  She  was  safest, 
and  the  furniture  was  safest,  when  she  was  sitting  still. 
Therefore,  she  sat  still  except  when  it  was  absolutely 
necessary  for  her  to  move  about. 

235 


OLD  HARBOR 


She  was  sitting  still  now,  her  glasses  stuck  on  her 
nose  at  a  precarious  angle,  darning  her  stockings.  Miss 
Susie  did  not  need  to  darn,  now,  but  darning  had  be 
come  a  habit  that  she  found  it  impossible  to  get  out 
of;  and  she  put  in  most  beautiful  and  artistic  darns,  so 
that  it  would  have  seemed  a  pity  to  give  up  a  thing  that 
she  did  so  well.  Miss  Hitty  was  not  darning  her  stock 
ings.  She  found  no  trouble  in  getting  rid  of  a  habit 
which  she  hated.  Miss  Hitty  was  doing  nothing  at  all, 
apparently,  except  to  look  out  of  her  window.  She  read 
a  little,  occasionally,  in  some  one  of  the  books  from  the 
big  bookcase,  but  she  was  not  fond  of  reading.  The 
habit  that  Miss  Hitty  could  not  easily  shake  off  was 
that  of  managing ;  nearly  all  her  life  she  had  had  to 
manage  to  make  almost  nothing  go,  at  least,  a  little 
way  —  to  stretch  it  very  thin.  She  could  not  quite  get 
rid  of  this  habit.  That  is  why  she  was  looking  out  of 
the  window,  although  the  connection  between  the  two 
may  not  be  obvious. 

"There's  Nan  Hedge,"  said  Miss  Hitty,  without 
moving  anything  more  than  her  lips.  "  She  seems  to 
be  coming  here." 

Miss  Susie's  glasses  immediately  fell  off.  "Oh,  sister, 
where?"  she  asked  eagerly.  She  fumbled  for  the  glasses, 
and  put  them  on  again  at  a  more  precarious  angle  than 
before.  She  always  did  that  when  she  was  the  least 
bit  excited.  Miss  Susie  was  easily  excited.  She  had  to 
hold  the  glasses  in  place  while  she  looked.  "  That  must 
be  her  new  Russian  sledge  that  she  told  us  about." 

236 


OLD  HARBOR 


Miss  Hitty  made  no  audible  reply. 

"  I  wonder,  sister,"  said  Miss  Susie  again,  "  if  it  can 
be.  It  does  n't  look  at  all  like  the  pictures  —  throwing 
the  children  to  the  wolves,  you  know."  Miss  Susie 
shuddered.  "I  never  could  understand  their  doing 
a  thing  like  that  —  even  peasants,  although  peasants 
must  have  a  low  order  of  intelligence.  It  is  in  one  of 
our  books.  I  forget  which  one." 

"  You  must  n't  believe  all  that  you  read,  Susie," 
replied  Miss  Hitty,  dismissing  the  subject.  "  There  's 
Nan  coming  in  now." 

"Oh,  sister!"  cried  Miss  Susie.  "Help  me  to  put 
away  this  darning.  I  don't  like  to  have  anybody  find 
me  with  —  with  stockings." 

"  It 's  better  than  to  find  you  without  stockings," 
said  Miss  Hitty. 

Miss  Susie  was  fumbling  again  —  fumbling  with  a 
drawer  of  the  sewing-table. 

"Oh,  sister  I"  Miss  Susie  blushed  faintly.  She  had 
got  the  drawer  of  the  sewing- table  open,  and  she  hastily 
crammed  the  stockings  into  it  so  that  it  would  not  shut. 
Miss  Susie  did  not  notice  that.  Her  glasses  had  fallen 
off  again,  of  course. 

She  hurried  out  into  the  hall,  nearly  upsetting  a  low 
table,  and  bumping  into  another  one  that  she  could 
not  upset. 

"Oh  dear!"  she  murmured.  "I  know  I  shall  be 
black  and  blue.  But  I  am  black  and  blue  now,  from 
head  to  foot." 

237 


OLD  HARBOR 


Miss  Hitty  smiled  slightly,  but  made  no  remark. 
Miss  Susie,  who  was  leaning  over  the  baluster  rail, 
heard  the  front  door  open  and  shut  again. 

"Nan!"  she  called  softly.  "Come  right  up,  dear, 
will  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  Miss  Susie,"  Nan  answered.  "I'm  coming." 
And  she  ran  up  the  two  flights.  I  am  not  sure  that 
she  did  not  begin  the  second  flight  two  steps  at  a 
time. 

Miss  Susie  was  not  sure,  either.  "Oh,  Nan,"  she 
said,  "you  did  n't  come  up  two  steps  at  once!" 

Nan  laughed.   "Would  it  shock  you  terribly?" 

Miss  Susie  sighed.  "  It  would  be  very  nice  to  be  able 
to  do  that,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  know  whether  I  should 
have  the  —  the  courage  to  do  it ;  but  I  would  like  to 
have  the  energy." 

Nan  laughed  again  and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek.  "  Is 
Miss  Hitty  in,  too?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  she's  in,"  Miss  Kitty's  voice  called,  with  a 
touch  of  asperity.  The  asperity  meant  nothing ;  nothing 
at  all,  except  that  Miss  Hitty  was  old  and  felt  it  and 
was  oppressed  by  her  bodily  ills.  "  Come  in  here,  Nancy 
Hedge,  where  I  can  see  you." 

Nan  came  in,  accordingly,  with  Miss  Susie,  whom 
she  steered  around  tables  and  chairs  to  her  seat.  Then 
she  went  to  Miss  Hitty  and  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks. 
Miss  Susie  had  set  her  glasses  on,  temporarily,  and  saw 
it.  The  glasses  fell  off  at  once  and  she  gasped  at  the 
sight. 

238 


OLD  HARBOR 


Nan  laughed.  "You  don't  mind,  do  you,  Miss 
Hitty?" 

Miss  Hitty  smiled  grimly.  "  No,"  she  said,  "  I  don't 
mind.  It  would  n't  make  any  difference  if  I  did.  You  '11 
always  have  your  way,  Nancy,  wherever  you  go." 

"To  tell  the  strict  truth,"  continued  Nan,  "you 
rather  liked  it." 

Miss  Kitty's  lips  were  pressed  together  in  a  grimmer 
way  than  ever.  "To  tell  the  strict  truth,"  she  replied, 
"I  rather  liked  it."  There  was  a  hint  of  affection  in 
her  eyes  as  she  looked  at  Nan.  "Do  you  find  many, 
Nancy,  that  don't  like  it?" 

"Well,"  said  Nan,  "I  have  n't  tried  them  all." 

Miss  Hitty  laughed,  to  Miss  Susie's  scandalized 
surprise. 

From  all  of  which  it  appeared  that  Nan  had  tried 
to  cultivate  the  acquaintance  of  the  Tiltons  with  some 
measure  of  success.  She  usually  did  succeed  in  any 
thing  that  was  of  sufficient  interest  to  induce  her  to  put 
her  heart  into  it.  Whether  she  was  playing  a  part  or  not, 
of  course  I  do  not  know.  Nan  was  an  excellent  actress. 

The  half -open  drawer  of  the  sewing-table  caught  her 
eye,  with  its  bunch  of  stockings  caught  in  it.  Miss 
Hitty  saw. 

"Pull  them  out,  Nancy,"  she  said  maliciously. 
"  Susie  darns  very  well." 

"  Oh,  sister,  no ! "  cried  Miss  Susie,  half  starting  up. 

Miss  Hitty  purposely  misunderstood.  "  Yes,  you  do, 
Susie.  Pull  them  out,  Nancy." 

239 


OLD  HARBOR 


Nan  glanced  at  Miss  Susie's  distressed  face.  "Not 
if  Miss  Susie  does  n't  want  me  to.  But  I  should  like 
to  see  them." 

Miss  Susie  was  the  color  of  a  rose.  "Take  them,  if 
you  like,  Nan,  dear,"  she  said.  "I  —  I  really  have  no 
objection  —  if  —  if  you  will  pardon  he  liberty."  She 
got  redder  than  ever. 

So  Nan  drew  forth  the  stockings  and  admired  the 
beautiful  work.  Then  Miss  Susie  got  up. 

"If  I  can  get  around  without  knocking  over  the 
things,  I'll  make  some  tea,"  she  said.  "You  can  wait, 
Nan?" 

"  Oh,  don't  —  now,"  cried  Nan.  "  I  want  to  take 
you  a  little  way  in  my  sledge,  first  —  one  at  a  time. 
Then  we  '11  have  our  tea.  I  '11  make  it  myself.  Which 
of  you  will  go  first?" 

Miss  Susie's  face  was  positively  beaming  with  hap 
piness.  "  Oh,"  she  cried  softly,  "  how  perfectly  lovely ! 
I've  never  been  in  a  Russian  sledge.  Tell  me,  Nan,  is 
it  a  real  Russian  sledge  ?  Because  it  is  n't  exactly  like 
a  picture  we  have  —  peasants  throwing  their  children 
to  the  wolves,  I  think  it  was  called.  The  sledge  was  pur 
sued  by  a  herd  of  wolves,  you  know.  There  are  three 
horses,  and  they  are  just  flying.  It  is  rather  awful." 

Nan  laughed.  "  I  should  think  so,"  she  said.  "  Hor 
rid  !  I  can't  imagine  it.  Very  likely  the  wolves  would 
have  preferred  one  of  the  horses.  My  sledge  was  made 
in  New  York,  but  they  call  it  Russian.  Now,  which 
of  you  will  go  first?" 

240 


OLD  HARBOR 


"Take  Hitty  first,"  said  Miss  Susie. 

Miss  Hitty  had  been  coughing  a  little,  now  and  then ; 
a  gentle  little  cough,  which  she  tried  not  to  make  evi 
dent.  But  it  was  evident. 

"  No,"  she  said  decidedly.  "  Take  Susie.  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  ought  to  go  at  all.  ' 

Nan  protested  that  the  sunshine  was  bright  and 
warm.  It  could  not  hurt  her,  surely,  to  go  just  a  little 
way. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Miss  Hitty,  with  another  of  her 
grim  smiles,  "I'll  go  when  Susie  gets  back.  I  don't 
mean  to  die  but  once." 

So  Miss  Susie  got  ready  and  fluttered  out  to  the 
sledge,  and  Nan  drove  her  out  upon  the  old  pike  a  little 
way,  and  then  home.  And  Miss  Hitty  was  ready  and 
waiting,  and  Nan  wrapped  her  well  in  the  robe  and 
she  settled  back  with  a  sigh  of  content.  Nan  drove 
her  down  the  street  on  which  were  the  Catherwoods' 
and  the  Joyces'  and  the  old  Tilton  place.  Miss  Kitty's 
gaze  lingered  on  the  old  place. 

"  I  wish,  Miss  Hitty,"  said  Nan,  impulsively,  "  that 
you  and  Miss  Susie  would  come  back  here  and  live 
with  me." 

Miss  Hitty  looked  at  her  in  amazement,  while  two 
tears  slowly  gathered  and  rolled  down  the  withered 
cheeks. 

"Thank  you,  Nancy,  dear,"  she  said.  It  was  the 
first  time  she  had  ever  called  Nan  "dear."  "Thank 
you.  It  would  be  nice.  But  it  is  n't  best."  She  spoke 

241 


OLD  HARBOR 


more  gently  than  was  her  habit,  and  there  was  no  touch 
of  asperity  in  her  voice. 

"  I  '11  get  you  yet,"  Nan  replied  almost  gayly.  "  You 
remember,  you  said  that  I  always  get  my  own  way." 

"Not  in  this;  but  it  is  kind  in  you  to  think  of  it." 

So  Nan  said  no  more  about  it.  We  may  suppose  that 
she  was  not  sorry  that  Miss  Joyce  and  Mrs.  Gather- 
wood  saw  Miss  Hitty  driving  with  her.  They  were  sur 
prised  to  the  degree  that  they  almost  forgot  to  bow. 

The  drive  was  a  very  short  one,  for  Nan  would  run 
no  risks.  At  Miss  Hitty's  door,  she  helped  her  out. 

"Have  you  enjoyed  it?"  she  asked.  "You  don't 
think  it  has  hurt  you,  do  you  ?" 

"My  dear,"  answered  Miss  Hitty,  "I  don't  know 
whether  it  has  hurt  me  or  not.  And  I  don't  care.  I  have 
enjoyed  it.  Now,  come  in  and  have  some  tea.  I  guess 
Susie's  got  it  all  ready." 

Nan  went. 

If  only  MacLean  had  seen  them!  It  would  have 
been  a  proper  bit  of  gossip. 


CHAPTER  XX 

CONTRARY  to  Abbie  Mervin's  expectations,  —  al 
though,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  thought  very  little  about 
it,  —  Eben  did  not  renew  his  confidence.  Perhaps, 
being  full  of  her  own  affairs,  in  which  Eben  had  no 
part,  she  gave  him  no  chance  to  do  so.  Perhaps,  too, 
Eben  saw  exactly  how  it  was  with  her.  It  was  not  that 
she  was  unwilling,  but  she  simply  did  not  think  of  it. 
Eben  knew  very  well  why.  He  was  no  fool.  He  would 
never  force  confidences  upon  her;  he  would,  rather, 
shrink  from  them  at  all.  So  it  happened  that,  as  the 
winter  went  on,  he  became  more  and  more  lonely  and 
drew  more  and  more  into  himself.  One  would  think 
that  would  be  difficult.  It  certainly  was  hard  for  Eben. 
It  seemed  to  be  impossible  to  know  him  well.  William 
had  tried  to  renew  their  old  friendship ;  but  their  friend 
ship  had  never  been  very  close,  for  five  years'  differ 
ence  in  age  makes  a  close  friendship  very  unlikely  when 
either  is  under  twenty.  His  attempt  had  not  been  a 
success,  and  he  had  given  it  up.  Others  had  tried,  and 
had  given  it  up.  Eben's  manner,  because  of  its  very 
perfectness,  had  been  an  impassable  wall.  They  could 
not  get  over  it,  and  they  could  not  see  what  lay  on  the 
other  side. 

The  only  man  who  could  be  called  a  friend  of  Eben's 
was  Heywood,  Colonel  Catherwood's  old  deaf  clerk. 

243 


OLD  HARBOR 


They  took  long  walks  together,  occasionally,  in  silence 
and  tranquillity.  Heywood  would  say  something,  in 
the  voice  which,  in  itself,  was  restful  in  its  slowness  as 
well  as  in  its  tones,  and  Eben  would  nod  and  smile ;  or 
Eben  would  point  at  something,  and  Heywood  would 
nod,  in  his  turn,  or  make  a  reply  in  the  same  low,  even 
voice,  characteristic  of  the  very  deaf.  That  constituted 
their  conversation.  It  was  always  about  unimportant 
things,  unexciting  things,  such  as  a  pine  tree  loaded 
with  snow,  or  the  track  of  a  rabbit  or  a  squirrel  or  a  fox, 
or  a  quiet  landscape  with  a  wide  prospect,  or  the  light 
of  the  setting  sun  upon  the  ice  in  the  harbor.  Those 
were  the  things  which  seemed  to  appeal  to  Heywood. 
It  would  be  absurd  to  imagine  making  confidences 
to  him.  As  well  shout  them  from  the  housetop. 

Harriet  was  very  kind;  kinder  than  she  had  been 
before  she  went  away.  Her  vacation,  which  was  to  be 
of  two  or  three  days  only,  had  drawn  out  into  three 
weeks,  and  she  had  come  home  rested  and  refreshed. 
She  did  not  say  where  she  had  been.  Eben  did  not 
ask,  except  in  a  perfunctory  wray.  Indeed,  he  had  not 
missed  her,  except  to  feel  dimly  grateful  for  the  lack 
of  her  supervision.  Constance  had  got  into  the  way  of 
coming  over,  during  Harriet's  absence,  to  cheer  Uncle 
Eben  up.  She  was  of  a  lively  disposition,  and  seemed 
irresponsible,  and  that  was  just  the  sort  of  person  Eben 
wanted.  She  did  cheer  him  up,  and,  gradually,  he  got 
into  the  habit  of  talking  freely  to  her ;  not  so  freely  as 
to  be  dangerous,  but  more  freely  than  to  anybody  else. 

244 


OLD  HARBOR 


Then  Harriet  had  come  back  and  Conny  had  come 
over  less  often.  Eben  felt  it. 

Harriet  was  very  kind,  but  there  was  nothing  in  her 
kindness  or  in  her  personality  to  invite  confidence  of 
things  that  were  —  well  —  disagreeable,  and  Eben 
found  his  burden  of  secrecy  almost  more  than  he  could 
bear.  He  brooded  upon  it.  At  last,  one  sloppy  day  in 
March,  he  set  out  for  Doctor  Olcott's. 

He  had  no  definite  intention ;  he  did  not  know  what 
he  should  do  when  he  got  there.  That  would  depend 
much  on  circumstances;  but  he  hoped  that  the  doctor 
would  be  at  home  and  inclined  to  —  to  —  well,  to  let 
him  do  whatever  it  occurred  to  him  to  do. 

He  was  just  about  to  ring  when  he  heard  the  doctor's 
hearty  laugh  come  from  the  direction  of  the  barn.  That 
meant,  to  Eben,  only  that  the  doctor  was  not  in  his 
study  and  that  he  was  not  alone.  Indeed,  he  had  been 
foolish  to  hope  to  find  him  alone,  for  the  doctor  had  lost 
no  time  in  getting  married. 

So  Eben,  with  a  sinking  heart,  went  to  the  barn.  As 
he  turned  the  corner,  he  saw  Willie  Houlton  standing 
on  his  hands  against  the  side  of  that  structure,  and 
Doctor  Olcott  standing  admiringly  before  him  —  not 
on  his  hands.  The  sun  was  shining  warmly  in  at  the 
barn  door,  and  its  warmth  had  cleared  the  snow  from 
a  wide  stretch  of  gravel  drive  in  front  of  the  barn.  In 
the  doorway,  little  Jimmy  Houlton  was  essaying  the 
same  feat  as  his  brother,  without  much  success.  It 
was  at  one  of  his  efforts  that  the  doctor  had  laughed. 

245 


OLD  HARBOR 


Doctor  Olcott  turned  at  the  sound  of  steps.  "  Hello, 
Eben!"  he  cried.  "You're  just  in  time  for  the  per 
formance.  Give  us  another,  Willie."  For  Willie  had 
come  down  upon  his  feet  at  sight  of  Eben. 

A  man  came  in  at  the  gate,  grinning.  "  Doctor,"  he 
said,  "  she  wants  you  again." 

"  Confound  the  woman ! "  exclaimed  the  doctor. 
"  She  does,  does  she  ?  Think  she  '11  live  till  I  get  there  ?  " 
The  man  only  grinned  the  wider.  "Well,  I'll  come. 
It's  Miss  Wetherbee,  Eben." 

Eben,  feeling  rather  blue  and  discouraged,  left  at 
once  and  walked  in  the  general  direction  of  home.  He 
did  not  feel  that  he  wanted  to  go  there,  right  away,  but 
he  did  not  know  what  else  to  do,  and  he  walked  aim 
lessly,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  sidewalk  just  before 
his  feet.  Suddenly  there  was  a  quick  rustle  and  some 
body  took  his  arm. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Uncle  Eben  ?  "  said  a  cheery 
voice. 

Eben  smiled  at  the  bright  young  face  that  was  nearly 
on  a  level  with  his  own.  Constance  was  going  to  be 
a  tall  girl.  It  was  getting  to  be  the  fashion  for  girls  to 
be  tall,  it  seemed. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Conny." 

"  Are  you  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  thought,  from  your  looks, 
that  you  were  never  going  to  be  glad  again.  That  would 
be  a  pity,  when  spring  is  just  coming.  Will  you  come 
for  a  walk  with  me  ? " 

It  was  just  what  Eben  wanted ;  and  they  turned  into 
246 


OLD   HARBOR 


a  road  that  led  out  into  the  country.  It  took  but  a  few 
minutes  to  get  into  the  country  from  any  part  of  Old 
Harbor. 

"  Now,  tell  me,  Uncle  Eben,  what  you  Avere  thinking 
about  that  made  you  so  low  in  your  mind,"  said  Con 
stance,  when  they  had  got  away  from  the  houses ;  "  that 
is,  if  you  like.  Not  if  you  don't." 

Eben  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  without  speaking. 
"Well,  Conny,"  he  replied  slowly,  "I  don't  know  that 
there  is  any  reason  why  I  should  n't  tell  you.  I  was 
thinking  of  a  man  I  met  in  the  course  of  my  knocking 
about  the  world.  I  have  knocked  about  a  good  deal." 

He  stopped,  and  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her  pre 
sence.  She  waited  until  she  began  to  be  afraid  that  he 
did  not  mean  to  say  more. 

"  I  suppose  you  have,  Uncle  Eben,"  she  said  gently. 
"You  must  have  seen  a  good  deal." 

He  started.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Conny.  I  was 
forgetting.  Yes,  I  have  seen  a  good  deal,  of  a  sort. 
Well,  this  man,  that  I  spoke  of,  came  out  of  a  hospital 
one  day.  It  was  just  about  this  time  of  year.  He  had 
had  an  accident,  and  he  had  lost  his  place  —  I  should 
say,  his  job  —  in  consequence.  He  had  just  one  dol 
lar  in  his  pocket,  he  was  not  yet  strong,  and  he  must 
make  that  dollar  last  until  he  found  something  that  he 
could  do.  So  he  looked  about,  all  that  day,  for  some 
thing  to  do,  and  he  did  not  find  it.  He  tramped  the 
streets  in  just  such  slush  as  this.  He  felt  tired  and  sick 
and  discouraged.  He  had  spent  a  part  of  his  dollar 

247 


OLD  HARBOR 


for  food,  and  he  must  spend  some  more  of  it  for  lodg 
ing.  He  knew  that  it  could  n't  last  much  over  the  sec 
ond  night,  and  he  expected  to  be  really  sick  by  that 
time." 

"  The  poor  man ! "  murmured  Constance. 

"Yes,  the  poor  man,"  returned  Eben.  "The  situa 
tion  is  not  a  new  one.  The  only  thing  about  it  that 
made  it  especially  hard  was  that  he  was  not  used  to 
such  things.  His  people  were  gentlefolk,  and  he  had 
been  well  brought  up.  Well,  he  spent  the  next  day  in 
the  same  way,  and  managed  to  save  fifteen  cents  for  a 
lodging.  On  the  second  morning  he  went  out  without 
a  cent  in  his  pockets.  He  could  n't  get  any  breakfast, 
of  course,  without  money.  He  tramped  the  streets 
again  until  noon,  looking  for  work.  It  began  to  rain ; 
a  cold  rain,  that  soon  soaked  him  through.  He  had 
nowhere  to  go  and  he  felt  hardly  able  to  stand,  any 
way.  So  he  gave  it  up  and  went  down  on  one  of  the 
wharves." 

"What  for,  Uncle  Eben?"  asked  Constance,  mysti 
fied.  "Did  he  expect  to  find  work  there?" 

"  He  meant  to  drown  himself,  Conny,  if  he  had  the 
chance.  He  told  me  that  he  felt  as  if  it  would  be 
nothing  but  a  relief.  He  was  sick  and  hungry  and  wet 
through  and  cold,  remember.  But  the  police  won't 
let  any  man  drown  himself,  and,  if  he  tries  it,  they 
arrest  him.  This  man  did  n't  get  the  chance,  that  af 
ternoon.  When  it  was  nearly  dark,  he  dragged  himself 
off  that  wharf,  meaning  to  go  to  another.  He  thought 

248 


OLD   HARBOR 


that  he  might  get  a  chance  to  drown  himself  after  dark. 
On  his  way,  he  met  a  girl  whom  he  had  known  before 
he  was  sent  to  the  hospital.  She  was  a  young  girl,  and 
—  and  she  knew  him  and  took  him  home  with  her. 
He  did  n't  want  to  go,  but  she  made  him." 

"Oh,"  cried  Constance,  "a  girl  like  me!" 

"Not  like  you,  Conny !"  said  Eben,  fiercely.  "Not 
at  all  like  you.  She  was  eighteen  or  nineteen ;  she  did  n't 
know  her  exact  age,  herself.  She  had  —  she  was  not 
at  all  like  you!" 

"Well,  she  was  kind,  anyway." 

"  Perhaps,"  replied  Eben.  "  That  was  what  the  man 
thought,  at  any  rate.  He  was  very  grateful,  when  he 
got  well  enough  to  be.  She  took  care  of  him  until  he 
was  quite  well,  she  and  some  friends  of  hers.  And  — 
well,  in  short,  he  felt  grateful  and  he  thought  she  was 

kind  —  and  —  there   were   other   reasons.     She   was 

» 

rather  handsome,  in  a  sort  of  a  way,  but  she  was  not 
at  all  the  kind  of  a  girl  he  had  been  brought  up  to  think 
well  of.  But  he  married  her." 

"  But,"  said  Constance,  "  how  about  the  girl  ?  What 
did  she  think  ?  Why  should  she  marry  him  ?  It  seems 
to  me,  Uncle  Eben,  that  you  have  not  presented  her 
side  of  the  case." 

"What?"  asked  Eben,  in  surprise.  "Well,  perhaps 
I  have  not.  That  —  that  had  not  occurred  to  me. 
There  were  reasons,  Conny,  why  —  well,  they  were 
married,  at  all  events.  They  had  rather  an  unhappy 
time  of  it,  so  that,  in  the  course  of  a  few  years,  he  went 

249 


OLD   HARBOR 


to  sea.  It  was  after  he  had  got  to  be  the  mate  of  a  ship 
that  he  told  me  the  story.  This  season  always  reminds 
me  of  it." 

"It  is  a  very  pitiful  story,  Uncle  Eben,  and  it's  too. 
bad  that  this  season  reminds  you  of  it.  The  season 
ought  to  be  joyful,  it  seems  to  me.  But  I'm  interested 
in  the  girl.  I'd  like  to  hear  her  side  of  it.  I'd  like  to 
know  what  she  did  when  he  went  away  to  sea.  Did 
he  ever  go  back  to  her  ? " 

"  He  did  n't  tell  me,"  replied  Eben,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  I  suppose  not.  She  got  along,  I  think,  very  much  in 
the  way  she  had  before  he  married  her.  I  really  don't 
know." 

Constance  made  no  reply,  and  they  turned  back  and 
walked  in  silence. 

"Uncle  Eben,"  said  Constance,  at  last,  "I  must 
leave  you  at  the  corner.  Was  it  your  own  story,"  she 
asked  softly,  "that  you  told  me?" 

Eben  looked  frightened.  "No,  no,  Conny,"  he  said 
hastily ;  "  no,  no.  The  man's  name  was  Bronson,  Jacob 
Bronson." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

MRS.  CATHERWOOD  had  not  forgotten  her  promise 
to  call  on  Nan  Hedge ;  that  was  not  the  reason  for  her 
delay.  She  simply  could  not  bring  herself  to  the  point 
of  actually  going.  What  would  that  Hedge  girl  think  ? 
What  could  she  think,  but  that  Mrs.  Catherwood 
thereby  sealed  the  affair  with  her  approval  ?  Jack  did 
not  delay,  whatever  his  reasons.  He  went  there,  regu 
larly  —  and  irregularly.  It  had  even  got  so  far  that  the 
colonel  and  Mrs.  Catherwood  could  assume,  with  some 
prospect  of  their  being  right  in  the  assumption,  that, 
if  Jack  was  not  otherwise  accounted  for,  he  was  at 
Nan's.  Even  the  colonel  thought  it  high  time  that  they 
see  about  having  something  done  about  it.  The  colonel 
said  so,  smiling,  one  day.  The  expression  was  a  favor 
ite  one  with  him,  as  connoting  a  vagueness  and  dis 
tance  of  intention  which  he  was  far  from  feeling.  The 
colonel's  intentions  were  not  vague. 

"Don't  you  think,  Polly,"  he  said,  continuing  his 
remarks,  "that  you'd  better  put  on  your  bunnit  and 
shawl  and  run  in  there,  just  to  see  what's  up?" 

Mrs.  Catherwood  sighed.  "Very  well,  Frank,  I 
will.  I'll  go  to-day.  But  I  can't  pretend  that  I  don't 
hate  it." 

"  Of  course  you  hate  it,  Polly.  So  should  I,  on  that 
251 


OLD  HARBOR 


errand.  But  I'd  go,  dear,  just  the  same,  if  it  would  n't 
be  making  the  bright  face  of  danger  too  fearsome,  and 
if  it  was  right  and  proper.  At  any  rate,  she  probably 
won't  eat  you." 

So  Mrs.  Catherwood  started,  that  afternoon.  If  she 
had  only  known  it,  there  was  no  danger  of  that  Hedge 
girl's  thinking  anything  but  the  exact  truth.  Nan 
had  had  experience  enough,  of  all  kinds,  I  suppose, 
to  make  no  mistake  as  to  her  purpose.  She  would 
make  no  mistake  in  regard  to  her  feelings,  either,  but 
she  knew  very  well  how  hard  Mrs.  Catherwood  would 
find  it,  and  how  she  hated  it.  But  Mrs.  Catherwood 
knew  nothing  of  Nan's  experiences;  nor  do  I,  for 
that  matter. 

Nobody  had  told  Nan  of  Mrs.  Catherwood's  inten 
tion  of  calling.  Nan  knew,  just  the  same.  Her  alma 
nac  must  have  had  in  it  some  such  prediction  as  this : 
"April  4.  About  this  time  expect  a  call  from  Jack's 
mother."  It  just  happened  that  Nan  saw  Mrs.  Cath 
erwood  coming.  She  saw,  too,  that  she  stopped  just 
before  she  got  to  the  gate  and  turned  down  in  the 
direction  of  the  Tiltons'. 

That  seemed  to  amuse  Nan.  She  gave  a  quick  little 
laugh  and  spoke  to  Mrs.  Haight. 

"  I  'm  going  to  see  my  dear  old  ladies,  Octavia.  Mrs. 
Catherwood  seems  to  be  heading  that  way,  and  I  think 
it's  my  duty  to  make  her  duty  easy  for  her.  Will  you 
ring  for  the  victoria?" 

Octavia  smiled  slowly  and  rose  and  went  out.  She 
252 


OLD   HARBOR 


did  not  say  anything.  There  did  not  seem  to  be  any 
thing  to  say. 

Mrs.  Catherwood  found  the  Tiltons  at  home.  Miss 
Hitty  sat  by  her  window,  while  Miss  Susie  bustled  about 
and  kept  dropping  her  glasses  off  her  delicate  nose  and 
putting  them  on  again ;  and  she  knocked  over  two  light 
tables  and  bruised  herself  against  almost  every  heavy 
piece  of  furniture  in  the  room,  while  she  prepared  to 
make  tea.  Mrs.  Catherwood  made  no  secret  of  her 
errand,  but  asked  Miss  Hitty,  quite  frankly,  her  opinion 
of  Nan.  She  could  trust  Miss  Hitty  to  tell  her  the  truth 
—  she  could  trust  both  of  the  Miss  Tiltons,  for  that 
matter  —  and  not  to  gossip.  They  would  see  her  point 
of  view,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  knew  Nan  better, 
probably,  than  anybody  else  she  could  have  gone  to. 

Miss  Kitty's  reply  was  direct  enough.  No  doubt  it 
was  colored, 'somewhat,  Mrs.  Catherwood  thought,  by 
her  liking  for  Nan ;  for,  on  that  point,  Miss  Hitty  left 
no  room  for  doubt.  That  was  surprising,  too.  Miss 
Hitty  Tilton  was  not  an  easy  mark  for  strangers.  If 
it  had  been  Miss  Susie,  now,  who  saw  nothing  but 
good  in  anybody  —  but  Miss  Hitty ! 

Mrs.  Catherwood  sighed.  "Well,"  she  said,  "I  sup 
pose  I  must  be  satisfied.  It  is  a  little  hard  for  me,  Miss 
Hitty.  There  are  so  many  girls  that  I  know  all  about. 
And  to  have  this  Miss  Hedge  step  in,  whom  I  know 
nothing  of  —  well" —  Mrs.  Catherwood  broke  off  and 
laughed.  "After  all,  probably  it  is  of  no  consequence. 
I  was  going  to  call  on  her  this  afternoon,  —  I  am  going 

253 


OLD  HARBOR 


to  call,  —  and  I  thought  I  might  as  well  learn  something 
about  her  before  I  went." 

Miss  Hitty  ignored  the  latter  part  of  Mrs.  Gather- 
wood's  speech.  "Why  should  n't  you  be  satisfied, 
Mary  Catherwood?"  she  said.  Mrs.  Catherwood  had 
carefully  avoided  mentioning  Jack's  name  in  connec 
tion  with  Nan  Hedge.  Miss  Hitty  did  not.  "  Jack 
might  do  very  much  worse.  Jack  is  old  enough  to  take 
care  of  himself.  It's  safe  to  say  that  he  will,  anyway. 
Nancy  Hedge  is,  at  heart,  a  "  -  Miss  Hitty  had  turned 
to  the  window  again,  while  she  was  speaking.  Now 
she  turned  back  again  and  smiled.  "  Here  she  is,  now," 
she  added.  "You  can  judge  for  yourself.  It  might 
have  been  simpler  for  you  if  you  had  called  sooner." 
Miss  Hitty  was  forgetting  what  had  been  her  own 
attitude.  "Susie,  here's  Nancy." 

Miss  Susie's  glasses  fell  off  at  once. 

"Oh,  sister,  is  she?"  And  Miss  Susie  scrambled  to 
the  window,  putting  on  her  glasses  as  she  went.  "  Why, 
sister,  she's  got  the  victoria.  She  must  be  meaning  to 
take  —  oh,  I'll  go  and  meet  her." 

They  heard  the  front  door  shut  and  Miss  Susie's 
soft  voice  calling,  "  Come  right  up,  Nan,  dear." 

And  there  was  the  sound  of  light  feet  running  up  the 
stairs  and  of  two  soft  kisses.  And  Nan  ran  in  and  had 
kissed  Miss  Hitty  on  both  cheeks  before  she  saw  Mrs. 
Catherwood.  At  least,  so  it  seemed. 

Miss  Hitty  kept  hold  of  Nan's  hand  while  she  pre 
sented  her.  It  was  much  as  if  she  were  presenting  a 

254 


OLD  HARBOR 


daughter,  of  whom  she  felt  particularly  proud.  Nan 
said  a  few  words  —  it  did  not  matter  what  they  were 
• —  and  took  Miss  Susie's  place. 

"Let  me  get  the  tea,  Miss  Susie,"  she  said,  "and 
you  sit  down." 

Miss  Susie  sank  into  her  chair  with  a  sigh.  "You 
are  so  good,  Nan!  I  always  bump  into  things  so! 
You  are  so  good!" 

"I  am  not  good,"  Nan  replied.  "I  only  seem  so. 
But  I  can  make  tea." 

Miss  Hitty  smiled  affectionately  at  her  and  cast  an 
indulgent  eye  on  Mrs.  Catherwood.  Mrs.  Catherwood 
was  surprised  at  the  smile  and  at  the  look;  although 
she  need  not  have  been  surprised  at  either.  For  Miss 
Hitty,  as  Mrs.  Catherwood  knew  very  well,  had  loved 
her  neighbors  all  her  long  life,  although  she  would 
have  been  torn  in  pieces  by  wild  horses  before  admit 
ting  such  a  thing.  She  probably  did  not  know  it,  her 
self.  If  she  was  finding  it  out  rather  late,  that  was  no 
cause  for  surprise,  but  rather  for  thanksgiving. 

Nan  made  the  tea  and  fished  some  little  cakes  from 
some  mysterious  place  behind  a  screen.  Mrs.  Cather 
wood  observed  it;  she  also  observed  that  neither  Miss 
Susie  nor  Miss  Hitty  appeared  to  think  the  fact  that 
Nan  was  allowed  to  penetrate  those  mysteries  worthy 
of  remark.  They  took  it  very  coolly,  as  though  it  was 
an  every-day  occurrence,  which,  indeed,  it  was,  al 
though  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  Mrs.  Catherwood 
should  be  aware  of  that. 

255 


OLD  HARBOR 


Then  they  all  sat  and  sipped  their  tea  from  the  Miss 
Tiltons'  delicate  old  china,  and  they  all  talked  about 
nothing.  At  least,  Nan  talked  a  good  deal,  and  Mrs. 
Catherwood  made  an  observation  now  and  then,  or 
replied  to  some  question  of  Nan's.  Miss  Hitty  and 
Miss  Susie  contented  themselves  with  smiling,  almost 
continually,  at  Nan's  remarks.  Even  Mrs.  Catherwood 
had  to  acknowledge  that  Nan  was  bright  and  amus 
ing,  and  that  she  had  been  prejudiced  against  her. 
The  prejudice  was  still  there,  and  she  knew  it ;  but, 
before  she  had  finished  her  second  cup,  Mrs.  Cather 
wood  found  that  she  had  asked  them  all  to  tea  at  her 
house. 

"You  must  pardon  the  informality,"  she  said  to 
Nan;  "I  was  intending  to  call  upon  you  when  I  left 
here.  I  shall  certainly  do  so  within  a  day  or  two." 

Mrs.  Catherwood  set  down  her  cup  and  rose.  Nan 
did  likewise. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "you  must  let  me  take  you  home; 
that  is,  if  you  are  going.  I  have  the  victoria  outside." 

Mrs.  Catherwood  protested,  but  in  vain.  She  felt 
that,  if  she  allowed  herself  to  be  seen  driving  with 
Nancy  Hedge,  she  was  lost.  Nancy  Hedge  may  have 
had  somewhat  the  same  feeling.  We  may  guess  that 
she  preferred  that  Mrs.  Catherwood  should  be  lost. 

"  But,"  said  Mrs.  Catherwood,  hesitating  and  hardly 
knowing  what  to  say,  "  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  came 
to  take  Miss  Hitty  or  Miss  Susie  out.  You  must  n't 
let  me  interfere.  It  is  only  a  step." 

256 


OLD  HARBOR 


Nan  smiled  brightly.  "  I  take  Miss  Hitty  and  Miss 
Susie  out  every  blessed  day,  don't  I,  dears?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Susie;  Miss  Hitty  only 
smiled  at  Nan  as  she  had  before. 

"  So  you  are  n't  going  to  refuse,  Mrs.  Catherwood, 
are  you?"  Nan  asked.  "Because  I  shall  feel  hurt  if 
you  do."  She  stooped  over  Miss  Susie's  chair  and 
whispered  that  she  would  be  back  to  do  the  dishes. 
Think  of  it !  Nan  Hedge  to  do  the  dishes ! 

Miss  Susie  did  not  seem  to  regard  the  idea  as  so  very 
unthinkable.  "Oh,  Nan!"  she  said.  It  looked  as  if 
the  idea  of  Nan's  doing  the  dishes  might  not  be  a  new 
one,  after  all.  Perhaps  Nan  was  so  immersed  in  du 
plicity  as  to  have  done  that  thing  before  —  several  times 
before.  It  is  difficult  to  imagine  it,  from  that  motive. 
I  confess  that  I  am  stumped;  almost  persuaded  to 
believe  in  Nancy  Hedge.  Doing  the  dishes ! 

Nan  stooped  again  over  Miss  Hitty 's  chair  and  whis 
pered  that  they  should  have  their  drive.  Then  she 
kissed  Miss  Hitty  again,  and  followed  Mrs.  Cather 
wood,  whom  she  saw  safely  into  the  victoria.  She  did 
not  mean  that  that  lady  should  escape  her. 

It  was  but  a  short  block  or  two  to  Nan's  house. 
"Mrs.  Catherwood,"  said  Nan,  when  they  were  almost 
opposite  the  entrance  to  the  driveway,  —  the  horse 
showed  some  inclination  to  enter,  but  he  was  steered 
carefully  away  by  Patrick,  who  sat  with  one  ear  cocked 
astern,  waiting  for  orders ;  he  knew  Miss  Hedge,  — 
"Mrs.  Catherwood,"  said  Nan,  then,  "won't  you  come 

257 


OLD  HARBOR 


in  now,  for  a  few  minutes  ?  Just  to  save  my  face,  you 
know." 

To  save  her  face !  Heavens !  But  Mrs.  Catherwood 
did  go  in,  graciously,  for  her  few  minutes,  while  Patrick 
waited.  After  that,  she  was  driven  home  by  Nan.  She 
did  not  meet  anybody  except  Harriet,  who  could 
scarcely  believe  her  eyes. 

Then  Nan  went  back  to  the  Til  tons'  again,  to  do 
the  dishes,  —  but  Patrick  did  not  know  that,  —  and  to 
take  her  dear  old  ladies  for  their  daily  drive.  Suppose 
MacLean  had  known  about  those  dishes! 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MRS.  CATHERWOOD  did  not  give  a  tea  for  Nan  Hedge. 
She  knew  better  than  to  do  that.  But  she  had  asked 
a  half-dozen  people  to  come  in  on  Friday  afternoon, 
and  Nan  was  one.  Nan  was  Hie  one.  Probably  Mrs. 
Catherwood  knew  it.  There  was  nothing  remarkable 
about  the  occasion;  nothing  that  was  at  all  unusual 
in  Old  Harbor.  Harriet  was  there,  of  course,  not  ap 
proving  of  it  at  all,  considering  the  circumstances.  She 
did  not  know  all  the  circumstances,  but  she  thought 
that  she  did,  and  she  remonstrated  accordingly. 

"I  think  it  is  rather  shocking,  Mary,"  she  said,  with 
a  little  laugh ;  such  a  little  laugh  as  would  be  expected 
of  a  maiden  lady  with  somewhat  strict  ideas  in  regard 
to  such  matters,  —  "  rather  shocking  that  you  should 
give  a  tea  for  that  Hedge  girl.  That's  what  everybody 
will  think,  that  it  is  for  her.  If  you  had  asked  my 
advice,  it  would  have  been  against  doing  anything  of 
the  kind." 

Mrs.  Catherwood  smiled  quietly,  She  did  not  re 
mind  Miss  Harriet  that  she  had  not  asked  her  advice. 
Neither  did  she  call  Harriet's  attention  to  the  fact  that 
no  one  could  predict  what  her  advice  would  be,  on  any 
given  subject.  Harriet  was  full  of  surprises,  and  she 
was  as  apt  to  lean  one  way  as  the  other.  It  did  not 
occur  to  Mrs.  Catherwood  that,  as  Harriet's  nephew 

259 


OLD   HARBOR 


was  involved, —  her  favorite  and  only,  —  jealousy  was 
necessarily  involved,  too.  She  felt  too  much  jealousy, 
herself,  to  make  allowance  for  it  in  others.  She  might 
even  have  resented  it. 

"I  'm  afraid  it  is  rather  late,  Harriet,"  she  re 
marked.  "The  deed  is  done." 

"  It  will  seem  to  commit  you  and  Jack,"  Miss  Har 
riet  said  doubtfully. 

"Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Catherwood,  with  a  little  sigh 
of  regret,  "  I  know.  But  seeming  to  commit  me  is  not 
committing  me,  luckily." 

"It  will  make  it  harder  for  you,"  Harriet  insisted. 

Mrs.  Catherwood  made  no  reply,  for  Abbie  Mervin 
came  in.  She  had  come  early,  so  that  she  should  not 
miss  any  of  the  play.  Then  Miss  Wetherbee  arrived, 
consumed  with  curiosity,  so  far  as  her  interest  in  her 
health  allowed.  Mrs.  Catherwood  was  indiscreet 
enough  to  say  that  she  hoped  that  Miss  Wetherbee 
was  well.  It  was  an  innocent  remark,  but  Miss  Weth 
erbee  interpreted  it  literally. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  suppose  I  should  be  well," 
said  she,  in  a  high  and  penetrating  voice ;  a  voice  which 
was  somewhat  shaky.  "  I  have  my  attacks  frequently 
—  two  this  week."  Mrs.  Catherwood  murmured  some 
thing  intended  to  be  vaguely  sympathetic,  and  final. 
It  was  not  final.  "I  shall  never  be  well  again,"  Miss 
Wetherbee  continued.  "Doctor  Olcott  is  no  better 
than  a  beast.  He  comes  when  he  feels  like  it,  and 
uses  the  most  shocking  language  —  horrible  language. 

260 


OLD  HARBOR 


Pie  has  improved  a  little  since  he  got  married,  but  he 
is  most  unfeeling.  Oh,  is  Mrs.  Houlton  —  I  mean  Mrs. 
Olcott  —  here  ?"  Miss  Wetherbee  seemed  to  have  had 
an  afterthought.  She  looked  around.  She  was  a  tall 
woman  and  an  old  woman,  hard-featured  but  with  an 
anxious  look  in  her  eyes  and  a  multitude  of  fine  lines 
in  her  forehead.  She  had  on  a  most  wonderful  hat; 
wonderful,  at  least,  for  an  old  woman,  with  many 
ostrich  plumes,  which  were  dyed  a  wonderful  color. 

Mrs.  Catherwood  smiled  faintly.  "Mrs.  Olcott  is 
not  here  yet,"  she  said.  "She  did  n't  know  whether 
she  would  be  able  to  come  at  all." 

Harriet's  face  was  a  dull  red.  She  was  fond  of  the 
stout  old  doctor,  and  she  felt  an  overpowering  resent 
ment  at  Miss  Wetherbee's  words.  "  I  want  to  tell  you, 
Miss  Wetherbee,"  she  said,  "that  Doctor  Olcott  is  not 
a  beast.  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  comes  to  you  as  soon 
as  he  can,  and  gives  you  the  attention  that  he  thinks 
you  need." 

Miss  Harriet  came  near  forgetting  where  she  was. 
It  may  be  that  she  had  quite  forgotten;  but  Mrs. 
Catherwood  laid  her  hand  upon  her  arm  and  she  sub 
sided  with  an  ill  grace. 

"Oh,"  cried  Miss  Wetherbee,  with  a  fine  stare  of 
astonishment,  "  are  you  there,  Harriet  Joyce  ?  I  might 
have  known  I'd  stir  you  up."  Miss  Harriet  pressed 
her  lips  together  and  said  nothing.  "Well,  I'm  sorry 
Mrs.  Olcott  is  not  here.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  her  about 
her  boys.  Every  time  they  go  by  my  house,  they  rattle 

261 


OLD   HARBOR 


on  my  fence-palings  with  a  stick,  the  whole  length  of 
the  fence,  and  they  pound  on  the  fence.  It's  enough 
to  kill  a  woman  that's  as  sick  as  I  am.  I'm  going  to 
speak  to  the  doctor  about  it.  Not  that  I  have  any  idea 
he  can  manage  those  boys." 

Mrs.  Catherwood  murmured  again.  Miss  Harriet's 
face  was  still  a  dull  red,  and  Abbie  turned  away  to  hide 
a  smile.  "All  boys  are  alike,"  Miss  Wetherbee  went 
on.  "They  are  brutal  savages,  that's  what  they  are. 
Every  few  weeks  I  find  my  gate  carried  a  square  or 
two  away.  I  have  to  pay  two  men  to  bring  it  back  and 
hang  it.  I've  had  it  screwed  on,  now.  They  can't  get 
it  off  the  hinges.  I'd  like  to  see  boys  done  away  with, 
by  law.  I  never  could  see  the  use  of  'em." 

"They  make  men,"  Abbie  suggested. 

"Precious  little  good  men  do  me,"  snapped  Miss 
Wetherbee,  "or  you,  either,  Abbie  Mervin." 

Abbie  turned  as  red  as  Harriet. 

Miss  Wetherbee  had  her  back  to  the  door.  "  Where  's 
that  Hedge  girl,  Mary?"  she  asked. 

"Here's  that  Hedge  girl,"  said  Nan,  who  had  come 
in  with  Miss  Hitty  and  Miss  Susie.  "  Please  be  nice  to 
her,  after  I  have  been  properly  presented." 

Miss  Susie  gasped  at  Nan's  audacity  and  Miss  Hitty 
smiled.  It  was  almost  a  giggle. 

"  Well ! "  exclaimed  the  astonished  Miss  Wetherbee. 
But  she  liked  it,  and  thereupon  suspended  general 
hostilities.  It  was  not  important  what  Miss  Wether 
bee  liked,  but  general  hostilities  are  not  conducive  to 

262 


OLD  HARBOR 


harmony.  They  might  have  added  to  the  gayety  of  the 
assembled  company  after  the  event.  They  do  not  con 
stitute  a  recognized  form  of  legitimate  entertainment 
at  such  a  function. 

So  Mrs.  Catherwood  presented  Nan,  as  Nan  herself 
put  it,  and  Nan  was  as  good  and  correct  and  proper  as 
any  one  could  have  wished.  No  one  could  be  more  cor 
rect  and  proper  than  Nan  when  she  wanted  to  be,  and 
she  did  her  best.  Whatever  might  have  been  Mrs. 
Catherwood's  intention,  Nan  was  the  centre  of  inter 
est.  There  was  no  doubt  about  that.  She  met  Miss 
Wetherbee's  questions,  which  were  undeniably  personal 
and,  many  of  them,  impertinent,  very  sweetly,  and  she 
told  that  tiresome  old  woman  as  much  as  she  thought 
she  ought  to  know  and  no  more.  That  was  not  much. 
When  she  was  tired  of  being  questioned  so  closely,  she 
started  Miss  Wetherbee  to  talking  about  her  health, 
in  general,  and  her  symptoms,  in  particular.  That 
was  mean  of  Nan,  but  she  kept  Miss  Hitty  chuckling 
away  to  herself  all  the  afternoon. 

This  tea  —  it  was  not  a  tea,  but  I  don't  know  what 
else  to  call  it  —  was  none  of  your  crowded  affairs  where 
a  person  can  run  in  and  run  out  again  — •  total  time 
spent,  less  than  five  minutes  —  and  never  be  missed. 
They  all  stayed.  After  an  hour  or  so,  when  the  con 
versation  was  beginning  to  languish  and  to  separate 
itself  into  dialogues,  as  conversations  in  the  best  regu 
lated  families  will  do,  William  Ransome  came  in,  with 
Jack.  William  had  been  impelled  to  come  by  a  desire 

263 


OLD  HARBOR 


to  see  how  such  a  happy  family  would  have  made  out. 
He  knew  Miss  Wetherbee,  and  thought  it  quite  possible 
that  an  hour  would  be  enough  to  set  them  all  by  the 
ears.  He  did  not  know  Nan.  Indeed,  it  is  doubtful 
whether  any  one  knew  Nan  thoroughly,  even  including 
Miss  Hitty  Tilton  and  Nan  herself.  William  may  have 
been  influenced,  unconsciously,  of  course,  by  a  wish 
to  obtain  material  for  his  stories.  And  Jack  —  well, 
Jack  had  concluded  that  he  would  get  home  early. 

The  arrival  of  William  made  Abbie  uneasy  and  con 
scious,  and  it  had  the  same  effect  upon  Harriet.  Wil 
liam  was  not  uneasy  or  self-conscious,  and  he  finally 
settled  down,  contentedly,  by  Miss  W'etherbee.  Jack's 
arrival  made  Mrs.  Catherwood  uneasy,  but  she  hoped 
that  she  did  not  show  it.  It  seemed  to  make  no  dif 
ference  to  Nan;  but  then,  as  I  have  said,  Nan  was 
an  excellent  actress.  Jack,  after  a  slight  but  evident 
flutter  about  her,  settled  down,  in  his  turn,  between 
Miss  Hitty  and  Miss  Susie. 

Miss  Wetherbee  was  clearly  annoyed;  which  was 
not  uncommon  enough  to  excite  remark. 

"I  thought,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper  that  must  have 
been  plainly  audible,  "that  Jack  Catherwood  was 
attentive." 

There  was  a  silence  that  you  could  have  heard ;  but 
Nan  seemed  unconscious.  William  smiled.  "Did 
you?"  he  asked.  "How's  the  cat,  Miss  Wetherbee?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  William,"  said  Miss 
Wetherbee,  staring.  "What  cat  do  you  refer  to?" 

264 


OLD   HARBOR 


"/  don't  know  what  cat  it  was  last  night,"  replied 
William,  "nor  what  cat  it  will  be  to-night.  Do  you?" 

Miss  Wetherbee  was  somewhat  upon  the  defensive. 
"  Of  course,"  she  said,  "I  don't  know  what  cat  the  boy 
will  bring  to-night.  Last  night  it  was  a  large  cat  with 
yellow  stripes." 

"Aha!"  William  exclaimed.  "Our  cat!  He  has  not 
been  home,  Miss  Wetherbee.  Mrs.  Gage  is  very  much 
worried  about  him.  I  am  afraid  that  you  are  techni 
cally  guilty  of  abduction." 

William  had  undoubtedly  accomplished  his  object. 
He  had  the  undivided  attention  of  all  present,  which 
was,  for  the  moment,  withdrawn  from  Nan  and  Jack. 
He  would  have  been  glad  to  drop  the  subject  there, 
but  he  could  not. 

"  I  am  not  guilty  of  anything  of  the  kind,"  cried  Miss 
Wetherbee,  indignantly.  "  Last  night,  the  boy  —  horrid 
little  beast  —  came  at  the  regular  time,  bringing  a  cat, 
which  he  held  by  the  tail.  I  can't  be  expected  to  give 
much  attention  to  the  boy,  but  any  one  could  see  that 
the  cat  he  was  holding  in  that  inhuman  manner  was 
a  dead  cat.  He  had  the  effrontery  to  say  that  I  had  n't 
said  anything  about  the  cat's  being  alive,  and  that  that 
was  a  perfectly  good  cat.  I  commanded  him  to  take 
his  dead  cat  away,  at  once,  and  to  bring  one  that  was 
alive.  So  he  did.  After  some  delay,  he  appeared,  carry 
ing  this  large  yellow-striped  cat.  He  seemed  to  have 
some  difficulty  in  holding  it,  and  he  insisted  upon  my 
paying  him  his  five  cents  before  he  let  the  cat  go.  I 

265 


OLD   HARBOR 


did,  and  discharged  him.  I  would  n't  employ  a  boy 
who  would  bring  me  dead  cats." 

"Of  course  not,"  William  murmured.  "Dead  cats 
may  be  of  use  to  the  boy,  but  not  to  you.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  that  boy  found  a  use  for  his." 

"He  hung  it  on  my  front  door  knob,"  said  Miss 
Wetherbee,  scathingly;  "horrid  little  savage!" 

William  had  seen  it  there.  He  did  not  say  so,  how 
ever. 

"  Please  explain,  Miss  Wetherbee,"  said  Nan.  "  That 
is,  if  you  don't  mind.  I  am  quite  in  the  dark." 

"  Certainly,  Miss  Hedge,"  began  Miss  Wetherbee, 
coldly.  "  I  am  troubled  with  mice.  A  cat  is  more  trou 
ble  than  the  mice,  if  you  have  to  keep  it  all  the  time. 
Always  under  foot.  I  hate  cats.  So  I  give  a  boy  five 
cents  a  day  to  bring  a  cat  every  night  at  seven.  It  is 
shut  in  some  room  where  the  mice  have  shown  them 
selves,  and  at  half-past  nine  I  put  it  out." 

"Oh,"  said  Nan.    "A  very  ingenious  arrangement." 

"Yes,"  said  William.  " Makes  use  of  the  cats  of  the 
neighborhood.  Impartial  and  exciting.  Partakes  of 
the  nature  of  gambling." 

"  Where,"  Nan  asked,  "  does  the  cat  go  at  half -past 
nine?" 

"  It  goes  out,"  answered  Miss  Wetherbee.  "  I  'm  sure 
I  don't  know  where.  Very  often  it  seems  to  stay  around. 
The  cats  make  a  terrible  noise  in  my^  yard,  almost 
every  night.  But  I've  never  harmed  them." 

"  Until  last  night,"  said  William,  "  that  could  not  be 


OLD  HARBOR 


disputed,  Miss  Wetherbee.    What  did  you  do  with  a 
certain  large  cat  with  yellow  stripes?" 

"I  turned  him  out,"  Miss  Wetherbee  snapped,  "at 
eight  o'clock,  William.  He  tore  around  my  room  as 
if  he  had  a  fit.  He  clawed  the  cloth  off  a  table  and 
broke  a  very  valuable  piece  of  china  that  my  father 
brought  home  in  one  of  his  last  voyages.  I  would  n't 
have  lost  it  for  all  the  cats  in  Old  Harbor.  I  got  the 
broom  and  chased  him  out.  It  took  me  an  hour." 

"That  is  a  very  intelligent  cat,"  William  remarked. 
"If  you  have  that  yellow-striped  cat  brought  again," 
he  continued,  "  I  wish  that  you  would  send  for  Mrs. 
Gage  or  me." 

"I  will,  William,"  said  Miss  Wetherbee,  grimly.  "I 
will  send  for  you.  I  shall  have  a  new  boy." 

Miss  Hitty  Tilton  rose  to  go.  She  was  still  smiling. 
"Mary  Catherwood,"  she  said,  shaking  that  lady's 
hand,  "I've  had  a  beautiful  time.  I  don't  know  when 
I  've  enjoyed  an  afternoon  more.  It  was  very  kind  of 
you  to  ask  us." 

Mrs.  Cathenvood  did  not  know  just  how  to  take  this 
speech  of  Miss  Kitty's.  It  was  usually  safe  to  read  into 
anything  that  Miss  Hitty  said  all  that  it  could  be  con 
strued  to  mean.  She  smiled. 

"  I  did  n't  realize  that  I  was  providing  amusement 
for  you,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  am  very  glad 
that  you  liked  it." 

Jack  seized  that  moment  to  lean  over  to  Nan.  "To 
night,  Nan  ?  "  he  whispered. 

267 


OLD  HARBOR 


Nan  nodded,  without  looking  at  him,  and  moved 
forward  to  say  good-by. 

"Well,  Polly,"  said  the  colonel  that  night,  "how 
did  it  go?  What  of  that  Hedge  girl  ?" 

They  were  waiting  for  Jack  to  come  in.  "It  went 
very  well,  as  far  as  she  was  concerned,"  she  replied. 
"  Her  behavior  was  irreproachable.  But  Miss  Wether- 
bee!"  She  drew  a  long  breath.  "Oh,  that  woman!  I 
will  never  ask  her  to  anything  again.  William  egged 
her  on."  She  gave  him  an  account  of  it. 

The  colonel  chuckled.  "So  William  did  that!  I 
would  never  have  suspected  him  of  it.  I  should  not 
have  thought  him  capable  of  it.  To  do  the  thing  up 
brown,  he  ought  to  have  gone  home  with  her." 

"He  did,"  said  Mrs.  Catherwood.  "But  I  don't 
like  her." 

"Like  Miss  Wetherbee!"  cried  the  colonel.  "Of 
course  you  don't.  Who  does?" 

"I  meant  Nan  Hedge,"  said  Mrs.  Catherwood.  "I 
can't  like  her,  in  spite  of  her  beautiful  behavior,  and 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Hitty  Tilton,  and  Susie,  too, 
evidently  regard  her  as  perfection.  I  don't  trust 
her." 

"  Therein  you  differ  from  MacLean  and  all  the  other 
shopkeepers  in  Old  Harbor.  But  I  understand  that  she 
is  good  pay." 

Mrs.  Catherwood  smiled  fondly.  "I  believe  you 
would  make  a  joke  of  it,  dear,"  she  said,  "  if  you  were 
being  tortured." 

268 


OLD  HARBOR 


"How  do  you  know,"  asked  the  colonel,  "that  it  is 
not  torture  to  me  that  my  only  and  well-beloved  son 
is  going  straight  to  the  demnition  dogs  ?  That,  I  un 
derstand,  is  the  gist  of  it.  Can  any  good  thing  come 
out  of  New  York?" 

Mrs.  Catherwood  laughed.  She  could  not  have 
helped  it.  "  If  Jack  was  really  in  love  with  her,"  she 
said,  "  I  would  welcome  her  and  sink  my  own  feeling 
for  his  sake.  But" 

"  Seriously,  Polly,  dear,"  said  the  colonel,  interrupt 
ing,  "  do  you  think  she  —  any  one  —  would  relish 
that  ?  Jack  is  old  enough  to  take  care  of  himself.  Sup 
pose  we  let  him  do  it." 

"That's  just  what  Hitty  Tilton  said." 

"Kitty's  opinion  strikes  me  as  sound,"  the  colonel 
observed. 

"Oh,  Frank,"  cried  Mrs.  Catherwood,  "do  let  me 
have  my  own  opinion  for  a  while,  at  least.  It  can't  do 
anybody  any  harm." 

Colonel  Catherwood  was  silent  for  some  minutes. 
Then  he  sighed.  "Well,"  he  said  thoughtfully  "I 
guess  we  might  as  well  see  about  having  something 
done  about  it.  What  I  have  in  mind  probably  won't 
do  any  lasting  harm.  I'll  tell  you  about  it  later." 

Mrs.  Catherwood  came  over  to  him  and  kissed  him. 
"Thank  you,  Frank,  dear,"  she  said.  "I  knew  you 
would  n't  desert  me." 

"Never!"  cried  the  colonel,  waving  his  book. 

At  that  moment  Constance  appeared  at  the  door. 
269 


OLD  HARBOR 


"Have  you  two  people  done  talking  about  Jack ?"  she 
asked.   "Because  he  is  coming  up  the  walk." 

The  doings  at  the  Catherwoods',  that  afternoon, 
would  have  made  a  proper  bit  of  gossip  for  MacLean, 
too.  They  did ;  for,  if  he  did  not  see,  he  heard,  and  at 
the  third  or  fourth  hand.  That  was  better  for  his  pur 
pose.  The  gossip  lost  nothing  by  repetition. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

EBEN  did  not  go  to  Mrs.  Catherwood's  on  that  Fri 
day  afternoon.  Harriet  had  made  an  attempt,  half 
hearted,  at  best,  to  persuade  him,  and,  finding  that  he 
seemed  to  be  afraid  to  go,  and  knowing  very  well  that 
she  would  not  be  able  to  prevail  over  his  obstinacy, 
as  she  called  it,  she  had  given  it  up.  Harriet  had  had 
ample  experience  of  Eben's  obstinacy,  in  the  last  few 
months.  She  had  tried  persuasion,  argument,  and  bul 
lying;  but  although  Eben  said  little  or  nothing,  she 
invariably  found  him,  when  she  got  through  her  ha 
rangue,  of  exactly  the  same  mind  as  when  she  began. 
It  always  made  her  feel  peculiarly  helpless,  which  was 
a  feeling  she  did  not  like ;  and  it  always  made  her  lose 
her  temper,  and  occasionally  made  her  forget  her  dig 
nity,  which  was  a  condition  that  she  liked  even  less. 
That  distressed  Eben,  but  did  not  make  him  change  his 
mind  a  single  jot.  Once  her  feeling  of  helplessness 
had  reduced  Harriet  to  tears,  which  she  liked  least  of 
all,  and  which  had  distressed  Eben  more  than  ever. 

So  Eben  did  not  go  to  Mrs.  Catherwood's,  and  he 
did  not  see  Nan  Hedge  nor  hear  Miss  Wetherbee.  He 
started  early,  instead,  and  walked  out  beyond  the  old 
Green,  where  no  Miss  Wetherbees  wrere;  where  no 
Miss  Wetherbees  could  be.  But  if  there  were  no  Miss 

271 


OLD   HARBOR 


Wetherbees,  there  were  song-sparrows  in  abundance, 
singing  their  sweet  little  cheerful  songs  at  every  oppor 
tunity.  The  song-sparrows  had  been  about  for  weeks, 
and  the  robins  were  beginning  to  come,  in  small  flocks 
—  not  the  scattered  individuals  of  two  weeks  earlier. 
The  songs  of  the  song-sparrows  penetrated  even  Eben's 
abstraction,  at  last,  so  that  he  smiled  in  spite  of  him 
self.  Then  he  looked  up  and  found  himself  before  the 
little  house  with  the  sagging  roof  and  the  great  square 
chimney  in  the  middle  of  it.  Chickens  were  picking 
about  in  the  front  yard,  and  a  robin  rose  at  his  approach 
and  flew  into  a  near-by  apple  tree.  And  an  old  woman, 
with  a  weatherbeaten  face  and  a  harsh  voice  that  yet 
was  very  sweet,  came  out  of  the  house  and  greeted 
him,  showering  blessings  upon  his  head. 

"Now,  Mr.  Eben,  dear,"  she  said,  after  you  would 
have  thought  that  she  had  exhausted  her  stock  of  bless 
ings,  "why  don't  you  go  over  into  the  pines,  if  you're 
but  strollin'  ?  You  '11  find  nobody  there  but  Clanky 
an'  my  Joe,  an'  they're  likely  to  be  anywhere  about. 
'T  is  dry  there  after  the  warm  wind  we  had.  'T  is 
lovely  in  the  pines,  now,  lovely.  An'  I  'd  take  it  kindly 
if  you'd  see  Joe,  now.  He's  that  better!" 

That  thought  suited  Eben.  He  would  meet  no  one 
but  Clanky  and  Joe  Loughery.  They  had  had  two 
days  of  a  warm  wind  that  had  borne  away  the  remains 
of  the  snow,  bodily,  and  had  hustled  winter  out  of  the 
way  in  great  haste,  to  make  room  for  spring.  The  old 
man  with  the  flying  white  hair  was  not  used  to  being 

272 


OLD  HARBOR 


treated  with  so  little  ceremony.  He  did  not  like  it.  He 
was  accustomed  to  take  his  time  and  to  move  away 
with  leisurely  step,  as  befitted  his  age ;  not  to  be  taken 
by  the  shoulders  by  a  warm  south  wind,  with  a  "  Step 
lively  now !"  and  driven  before  it  at  a  most  undignified 
pace,  in  spite  of  his  grumblings  and  protests.  That 
same  south  wind  had  left  the  ground  dry,  at  least  on 
the  surface.  Eben  thanked  Mrs.  Loughery  and  struck 
over  into  the  pine  woods. 

He  followed  the  winding  path  that  led  across  the 
fields  from  Mrs.  Loughery's ;  the  path  which  had  been 
tramped  several  times  a  day  by  Clanky  Beg  in  all 
weathers,  at  least  once  a  day  by  Mrs.  Loughery,  and 
occasionally  by  Joe.  It  led  him  in  through  the  fringe 
of  young  growth,  through  a  break  in  a  stone  wall, 
stretching  away  among  the  pines  and  in  among  the 
old  trees  —  tall  columns  supporting  the  green  roof,  far 
above  his  head.  As  Eben  felt  his  feet  pressing  the 
soft  brown  carpet  and  heard  the  green  crowns  whisper 
ing  gently  over  him,  he  had  a  sense  of  peace  and  con 
tent  and  of  the  quiet  joy  of  living  that  was  very  strange 
to  him,  and  very  pleasant;  more  than  pleasant. 

He  smiled  —  he  was  not  aware  that  he  smiled  —  and 
went  on. 

He  came  out  in  a  little  clearing  just  big  enough  to  let 
in  a  small  circle  of  sunlight ;  and  in  that  circle  sat  Joe 
Loughery,  on  an  old  chair  that  had  no  back  and  that 
was  propped  against  a  tree.  Joe  spent  most  of  his  time 
in  that  clearing,  following  the  sunshine  about  by  mov- 

273 


OLD  HARBOR 


ing  his  chair  from  one  tree  to  another.  Clanky  Beg  sat 
near  him,  on  a  log  —  a  log  that  could  not  be  moved  about 
from  one  tree  to  another.  It  was  all  the  same  to  Clanky. 
He  did  not  care  whether  his  seat  was  in  sunshine  or  in 
shadow,  so  long  as  Joe  was  happy. 

Clanky  and  Joe  greeted  Eben  at  once.  "  I  knew  you 
were  coming,"  Joe  said.  "  Clanky  always  knows  as 
soon  as  anybody  comes  into  these  woods.  He  slipped 
away  and  shadowed  you,  and  then  came  back  and 
told  me  who  it  was.  I'm  afraid  I  should  not  have 
remembered  you." 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  replied  Eben.  "But  I'm  sure 
that  I  came  very  quietly.  How  could  Clanky  know?" 

"/  don't  know,"  said  Joe,  laughing,  "unless  it  was 
by  scent.  It's  not  exactly  pleasant  to  think  of,  is  it?" 

"  Dear  me !"  cried  Eben,  softly. 

Joe,  seeing  his  face,  laughed  again. 

Then  Eben  sat  upon  the  log  beside  Clanky  and  lis 
tened  to  Joe's  happy  chatter,  and  once  in  a  while  he 
said  something  in  return,  gravely.  It  was  not  the  Joe 
of  a  few  months  before,  without  hope  of  life,  but  bear 
ing  his  burden  bravely;  it  was  quite  a  different  Joe, 
hopeful  and  happy,  looking  forward  to  the  time  when 
he  should  be  able  to  do  his  part.  The  outward  change 
was  as  great;  but  Eben  had  not  seen  Joe  before. 
Clanky  was  content  to  listen,  too.  Eben  was  at  ease 
for  the  first  time  in  —  oh,  in  years.  He  was  even  happy. 
He  was  so  happy  that,  before  he  suspected  it,  the  after 
noon  had  slipped  away. 

274 


OLD  HARBOR 


Joe  insisted  upon  showing  him  the  hut  before  he 
went.  It  was  just  beyond  the  edge  of  the  clearing; 
poorly  built,  of  any  remains  of  lumber  that  Clanky 
had  been  able  to  find,  with  a  roof  thatched  with  spruce 
boughs.  Some  of  the  chinks  were  so  large  that  you 
could  see  through  them.  There  were  two  small  win 
dows,  and  directly  under  each  was  a  bunk.  There  was 
a  stove,  too,  without  fire. 

"  One  of  'em's  Clanky's  and  one's  mine,"  explained 
Joe,  eagerly,  pointing  to  the  bunks. 

"Oh,"  Eben  replied.  "I  suppose  you  don't  have  to 
open  the  windows  at  night.  I  should  think  air  enough 
would  get  through  the  walls." 

Joe  laughed.  "We  don't  open  'em.  We  take  'em 
out,"  he  said.  "There's  air  enough.  It  was  pretty 
cold,  all  winter,  but  we  were  wrapped  warm.  In  the 
morning,  Clanky 'd  get  up  and  put  in  the  windows  and 
make  a  fire,  so  it'd  be  warm  for  me  to  dress.  And  I'd 
be  out  all  day,  generally,  sunshine  or  storm,  except  in 
the  worst  of  'em  or  when  it  rained.  Oh,  it's  great,"  he 
added  enthusiastically;  "simply  great." 

"  I  like  air,"  said  Eben,  slowly,  "  but  I  should  think 
this  would  be  almost  too  much  of  a  good  thing.  You  '11 
soon  be  well  enough  to  sleep  in  a  house  again." 

"  Never ! "  Joe  said  decidedly.  "  That  is,  I  suppose 
I'd  be  well  enough,  but  I  shan't  sleep  in  a  house  again, 
never  again,  unless  I  have  to." 

"Oh,"  said  Eben. 

"You  can't  make  up  your  mind  to  go  back  to  a 
275 


OLD  HARBOR 


house,"  Joe  continued,  "when  you've  once  got  used 
to  this.  It  won't  be  long,  now,  before  we  can  sleep  out 
doors.  This  is  about  the  same  thing  as  outdoors,  but 
think  of  having  nothing  over  your  head  but  the  tops 
of  the  pines  and  the  sky !  Why,  it 's  almost  as  good  as 
being  at  sea." 

Eben  smiled.  Almost  as  good  as  being  at  sea !  It  is  to 
be  supposed  that  Eben  knew  about  that.  It  is  to  be  sup 
posed  that  he  thought  of  the  stuffy  forecastle,  crowded 
with  men,  smelling  of  wet  clothes  and  old  boots  and 
other  things  that  were  even  less  agreeable.  But  there 
was  no  smell  of  wet  clothes  and  old  boots  outside  the 
forecastle.  Eben  had  sometimes  spent  nights  out  there 
under  the  sky,  in  fine  weather,  when  he  was  not  too 
tired,  which  was  seldom  the  case,  and  had  watched  the 
slowly  swinging  masts  with  their  bellying  black  sails 
extinguish  the  Southern  Cross,  like  the  shutter  of  a 
camera.  Such  occasions  were  rare.  He  had  generally 
been  so  tired,  when  it  came  time  for  his  watch  below, 
that  he  had  been  glad  to  tumble  into  his  bunk  with  his 
clothes  on,  in  spite  of  the  smell  of  wet  clothes  and  old 
boots.  Joe's  words  stirred  into  activity  a  longing  that 
had  never  died  a  decent  death  —  or  an  indecent  one ;  that 
had  never  even  been  scotched.  It  was  a  positive  pain, 
that  longing  for  the  sea.  Eben  knew  why  he  avoided, 
in  his  walks,  any  hill  or  high  land  from  which  he  might 
have  seen  the  ocean.  There  were  a  plenty  of  such 
points  about  Old  Harbor.  But  the  ocean  could  not  be 
seen  by  any  one  within  those  pine  woods,  although  it 

276 


OLD  HARBOR 


was  in  plain  sight  of  the  crowns,  and,  occasionally,  it 
could  be  smelt,  if  the  wind  was  the  right  way. 

So,  thereafter,  Eben  went,  every  day,  to  the  pines, 
in  search  of  solitude  and  of  that  sense  of  peace  that 
was  to  be  valued  above  rubies.  It  was  about  as  good 
as  being  alone  to  be  with  Joe  and  Clanky  Beg ;  fully  as 
good  to  wander  about  with  Clanky  as  his  only  com 
panion.  Clanky  would  roam  the  woods  like  a  dog, 
only  more  silently,  coming  back  to  Eben,  now  and 
then,  to  see  where  he  was  or  to  exchange  a  few  words. 
As  a  companion,  he  was  as  satisfactory  as  a  dog;  which 
is  saying  a  good  deal  for  Clanky.  Even  Heywood  fell 
short  of  that  one  degree.  Eben  did  not  give  up  his 
walks  with  Heywood.  Heywood  was  free  only  one 
afternoon  a  week,  sometimes  two.  But  Eben  did  not 
take  him  into  the  pines.  The  pines  were  Clanky's  and 
Joe's  and  his. 

He  walked  no  more  with  Constance,  but  he  avoided 
her.  He  had  become  afraid  of  Constance.  She,  after 
the  manner  of  kind-hearted  young  girls,  having  no 
ticed  it,  was  vaguely  sorry  and  thought  no  more  about 
the  matter.  If  Uncle  Eben  did  not  desire  her  society, 
why,  he  need  not  have  it.  Her  only  wish  had  been  to 
please  him. 

Still,  Eben  was  somewhat  restless  and  uneasy,  for 
he  could  not  well  be  in  his  pine  woods  all  the  time. 
Clanky  saw  it.  And,  partly  because  he  counseled  it, 
partly,  no  doubt,  because  a  sailor  is,  at  heart,  more  than 
half  a  farmer,  Eben  determined  to  try  his  hand  at  gar- 

277 


OLD   HARBOR 


dening.  Clanky  helped  him  at  it;  and  Doctor  Olcott, 
hearing  of  it  through  Harriet,  found  Eben  hard  at  work 
with  his  planting. 

Eben  looked  up,  at  the  doctor's  chuckle,  and  smiled. 

"That's  right,  Eben,"  said  the  doctor.  "Dig!  Dig! 
It's  the  best  remedy  for  almost  everything,  espe 
cially  at  this  season.  I  wish  I  could  get  William  to  dig 
ging-" 

"Why,  doctor?"  asked  Eben,  surprised.  "Is  Wil 
liam  ill?" 

"Thinks  he  is,"  answered  the  doctor.  "Mortally 
afraid  he  is.  Says  his  liver's  upset.  What  does  he 
know  about  his  liver  ?  Should  n't  know  he 's  got  such 
a  thing.  I  tell  him  he  has  n't,  and  that  scares  him 
worse  than  ever.  I  know  his  symptoms.  Had  'em 
myself.  Liver!"  And  the  doctor  chuckled  again. 
"Lover!  That's  what's  the  matter  with  William.  He 
does  n't  know  it." 

Suddenly  the  doctor's  chuckling  stopped  abruptly. 
He  was  remembering  some  gossip  of  MacLean's  about 
William  and  Harriet  and  Abbie  Mervin.  Of  course  he 
had  not  paid  any  particular  attention  to  it;  he  never 
paid  particular  attention  to  MacLean's  gossip,  but  he 
usually  let  him  talk  on.  He  had  heard  but  vaguely  that 
William  —  -  But  there !  The  fact  that  stood  out  in  his 
recollection,  if  it  was  a  fact,  was  that  Mac-Lean  seemed 
to  think  that  WTilIiam  had  tired  of  Harriet ;  of  his  devo 
tion  of  ten  years  or  more.  Well,  well,  that  might  be 
true.  Damn  it,  yes.  Ten  years !  He  would  get  tired  of 

278 


OLD  HARBOR 


that,  himself;  and  it  would  n't  take  him  ten  years, 
either,  even  for  Hattie's  sake.  As  good  a  woman  as 
God  ever  made,  but  —  but  —  The  good  doctor  stum 
bled  over  that  "but."  It  was  her  brother  that  he  had 
said  it  to  —  that  poor  joke  about  William's  liver. 

Perhaps  Eben  had  not  noticed.  The  doctor  looked 
at  him  sharply.  Eben  was  smiling  gently.  The  devil 
of  it  was  that  you  could  never  tell  what  in  thunder 
Eben  was  smiling  at. 

"Well,"  he  said,  turning  away,  "keep  it  up,  Eben. 
Keep  it  up !  It'll  do  you  good.  I'll  see  what  I  can  do 
with  William." 

William  had  gone  to  Doctor  Olcott,  not  long  before, 
afraid  that  he  was  getting  sick.  He  could  not  write 
in  his  rooms,  although  he  had  been  accustomed  to  do 
it  easily;  and  other  places  were  no  better.  He  had 
roamed  the  country  over  alone,  as  Eben  had,  and  had 
found  his  roaming  no  more  conducive  to  work.  He 
seemed  to  be  unable  to  think ;  and  it  was  then  that  he 
became  alarmed. 

Doctor  Olcott  had  listened  to  it  all,  and  then  he  had 
laughed,  and  William  had  been  almost  offended. 

"Oh,  don't  get  mad,  William,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  Don't  get  mad.  I  know  what's  the  matter  with  you. 
I  prescribe  digging." 

William  was  astonished.  "Digging!"  he  cried. 
"Digging  what?" 

"Digging  dirt,  man!  Digging  dirt!  Dig  a  hole  in 
the  ground,  if  you  can't  do  better." 

279 


OLD   HARBOR 


"Perhaps,"  said  William,  smiling,  "you  could  get 
me  a  job  as  sexton  ?  " 

The  doctor  was  not  a  vestryman ;  he  never  went  to 
church. 

Doctor  Olcott  laughed  again.  "Don't  you  dig  at 
me,"  said  he.  "  That  won't  do  your  business.  Dig  the 
ground.  You're  a  very  sick  man,  William,  but  I  guess 
you'll  live  a  few  hours  yet.  Work  with  your  hands, 
out  of  doors.  Expand  your  lungs  and  get  your  fill  of 
this  air  and  God's  sunshine.  Get  tired.  Get  so  tired 
that  you  ache  to  get  to  bed  at  night.  It 's  spring,  man, 
spring." 

"It  will  be  a  little  difficult,"  returned  William, 
slowly,  "to  carry  out  the  whole  of  your  prescription, 
doctor.  Is  n't  there  some  other  remedy?" 

"Well,"  replied  the  doctor,  looking  at  William  quiz 
zically,  "there  may  be  —  probably  is.  But  I  don't 
know  which  it  is.  The  oracle  has  spoken.  Better  try 
the  digging,  as  much  of  it  as  you  can  manage." 

"  Your  utterance  is  somewhat  cryptic,"  said  William, 
dryly,  "but  that  is  characteristic  of  oracles,  I  under 
stand." 

He  had  tried  the  digging,  mildly,  and  it  had  pro 
duced  little  result ;  then  furiously,  with  little  more,  ex 
cept  that  he  was  so  lame  that  he  could  scarcely  move 
about  the  bank.  He  saw  Harriet,  occasionally,  and 
was  glum  and  discontented  and  irritable.  His  irrita 
bility,  he  thought,  was  due  to  the  fact  that  he  wanted 
to  write  and  could  n't.  If  he  had  been  able  to,  he  would 

280 


OLD  HARBOR 


have  been  as  serene  as  a  May  morning.  But  he  could 
not  talk  with  Harriet  about  it.  She  would  not  have 
understood  and  would  have  contended,  stoutly,  that 
it  only  proved  how  ill  adapted  he  was  to  that  business 
-  that  business  that  was  scarcely  respectable.  She 
would  have  urged  him  to  give  it  up ;  to  stick  to  some 
thing  dignified,  like  banking.  It  would  all  be  in  that 
superior  tone,  as  if  she  was  right,  always,  as  a  matter 
of  course.  He  knew  that  tone ;  he  had  had  all  of  it  that 
he  wanted.  No,  he  could  not  talk  to  Harriet  about  it. 
So  he  was  just  glum. 

Harriet  was  naturally  a  cheerful,  buoyant,  self-re 
liant  person,  but  she  had  her  faults,  of  a  kind  which 
were  common  in  Old  Harbor.  She  was  fond  of  Wil 
liam  ;  fonder,  perhaps,  than  she  had  been  aware.  She 
never  took  me  into  her  confidence,  so  that  I  don't 
know  whether  she  was  or  not.  I  don't  know  whether 
or  not  her  affection  for  him  was  of  that  mild,  sisterly 
variety,  which  would  gladly  have  kept  his  feet  in  that 
straight  and  exceedingly  narrow  path  in  which  she 
kept  her  own.  That  path  was  very  straight  and  very 
narrow,  and  it  is  conceivable  that  it  might  have  led 
William  where  he  did  not  care  to  go.  Harriet  could 
not  imagine  that.  It  never  once  entered  her  head. 

However  that  may  be,  William  seemed  to  balk  at 
taking  the  path  at  all,  judging  from  his  glumness  and 
irritability;  and  Harriet's  natural  buoyant  cheerful 
ness  could  not  save  her  from  two  days  of  perilous  sharp 
ness  of  tongue.  It  is  to  be  supposed  that  William  did 

281 


OLD  HARBOR 


not  like  the  sharpness.  It  did  not  last  more  than  the 
two  days,  —  Harriet's  good  sense  came  to  her  rescue, 
—  but  two  days  of  it  seemed  to  be  enough  for  William. 
Harriet  did  not  get  the  chance  to  apologize  to  him  for 
the  things  she  had  said,  which  she  had  fully  made  up 
her  mind  to  do.  Harriet  did  not  like  to  apologize. 

Abbie,  on  the  other  hand,  understood  and  made 
allowances  and  comforted  him.  It  is  a  pity  that  a  good 
man  must  seem  such  a  helpless  infant,  but  many  of 
them  do,  and  do  not  even  know  it.  We  have  no  right 
to  put  upon  the  women  the  burden  of  dragging  us  out 
of  our  sloughs  of  despond,  but  we  do,  over  and  over. 
Generally,  we  are  not  aware  that  we  are  doing  it,  if 
that  is  any  comfort.  Do  our  women  laugh  at  us,  I 
wonder  ?  They  have  the  right  to. 

Abbie  did  not  seem  to  think  that  William's  writing 
was  disreputable,  or  that  writing  was  a  disreputable 
occupation.  She  did  not  try  to  make  him  give  it  up. 
So  it  came  about  that  he  was  with  Abbie  the  more  and 
with  Harriet  the  less  —  none  at  all.  When  he  found 
that  he  felt  a  little  better,  he  explained  his  feelings  to 
Abbie  and  apologized  for  them,  and  he  related  his 
conversation  with  the  doctor. 

Abbie  laughed.  She  seemed  to  find  something  very 
amusing  in  it.  William,  because  he  had  puzzled  over 
it  for  a  long  time  with  no  result,  asked  her  if  she 
understood  what  the  doctor  was  driving  at. 

They  were  on  a  pleasant  old  road  that  went  by  the 
name  of  Lovers'  Lane,  guarded  by  rows  of  stump  wil- 

282 


OLD  HARBOR 


lows.  Nobody  was  in  sight.  There  was  only  the  ancient 
white  house  of  Cap'n  Armitage,  himself  an  ancient 
man,  a  retired  sea-captain,  almost  blind.  Not  that  that 
had  anything  to  do  with  it. 

Abbie  slipped  her  hand  within  William's  arm.  He 
found  that  agreeable,  but  took  no  notice  of  it,  beyond 
crooking  his  elbow,  so  that  the  hand  should  stay  there 
comfortably. 

"Yes,  you  goose,"  said  Abbie;"!  understand." 

"  Well,  what  did  he  mean,  Abbie  ?  "  William  insisted. 
"Tell  me." 

"I  —  I  can't  tell  you,  William,"  said  Abbie,  softly. 
"You  must  find  out  for  yourself." 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  William  said  no  more,  of 
consequence,  at  that  time. 


NANCY  HEDGE  and  Octavia  Haight  had  just  fin 
ished  their  lonely  dinner ;  lonely,  in  spite  of  the  air  of 
ease  and  affluence,  the  abundance,  the  servants,  com 
ing  and  going  about  their  duties  in  silence.  Or  it  may 
have  been  lonely  because  of  these  very  things.  It  might 
have  added  spice  and  somewhat  diminished  the  loneli 
ness  of  it  all  if  they  had  had  to  wait  on  themselves,  — 
to  "  do  their  own  reaching,"  —  and  if  the  door  had 
opened  mysteriously,  disclosing  an  arm  guiltless  of 
sleeve  and  a  hand  holding  a  pie,  and  a  raucous  voice 
had  suddenly  appeared  at  the  door,  saying,  "Here's 
yer  pie ! "  Or  it  might  have  added  to  the  gayety  of  the 
occasion  if  a  maid,  who,  in  that  case,  would  have  been 
the  cook  as  well  as  the  waitress,  had  deposited  an  all 
too  solid  baked  custard  on  the  table  before  Nan,  with 
an  "Ain't  it  fierce?" 

None  of  those  things  happened,  to  stimulate  Nan 
to  mirth  and  to  reduce  Octavia  to  despair.  Such  things 
could  not  happen  in  Nan's  house.  They  had  hurried 
through  the  meal  —  or  Nan  had ;  Octavia  did  not  be 
lieve  in  hurrying  through  a  meal.  She  had  even  com 
plained  that  Nan  never  gave  her  time  to  finish  a  course 
before  it  was  whisked  out  of  sight.  Nan  had  contented 
herself  with  the  remark  that  she  believed  that  Octavia 

284 


OLD  HARBOR 


was  growing  stout.  So  Octavia  had  said  no  more,  but 
she  followed  Nan  into  the  library  in  a  state  of  deep 
discontent,  and  sank  into  an  easy-chair  with  her  hands 
across  her  lap. 

Nan  did  not  sit  down.  She  wandered  aimlessly  about, 
straying  from  one  thing  to  another.  She  was  not  rest 
less.  She  seemed  to  have  a  heart  at  ease,  and  to  be 
altogether  content  with  things  as  they  were.  Nan  had 
improved  in  the  past  few  months.  Her  eyes  shone  more 
softly  if,  perhaps,  less  brilliantly  than  they  had;  her 
complexion  no  longer  suggested  doubts  as  to  paint  and 
powder.  I  have,  to  be  sure,  no  reason  to  think  that 
such  doubts  were  ever  justified,  but  it  was  generally 
believed  in  Old  Harbor.  It  is  certainly  a  sign  of  im 
provement  that  she  seemed  to  have  a  heart  at  ease; 
that  she  seemed  to  have  a  heart  at  all.  That  may  have 
been  the  secret  of  those  changes  that  I  have  mentioned, 
and  of  others  that  were  more  elusive. 

So  Nan  wandered  about,  contentedly,  until  Octavia 
could  stand  it  no  longer. 

"  Oh,  Nan,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  little  note  of  im 
patience  in  her  voice,  "do,  please,  sit  down." 

Nan  laughed  good-naturedly.  "Why?  Do  I  make 
you  nervous  ?  " 

"Well  —  " 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  said  Nan,  still  with  a  patience  that 
was  no  less  than  marvelous,  in  Nan.  A  few  months 
before,  she  would  have  made  some  stinging  remark 
which  would  have  reduced  Octavia  to  silence,  if  it  did 

285 


OLD   HARBOR 


not  drive  her  to  her  room.  "All  right.  I'll  go  into  the 
other  room.  It  really  does  n't  make  any  difference  to 
me." 

She  started  for  the  drawing-room,  across  the  hall. 

Octavia  rose  swiftly  and  went  to  her.  "I  beg  your 
pardon,  Nan.  Don't  pay  any  attention  to  me.  Don't 
go  away  unless  you  prefer." 

"  It  really  does  n't  matter,"  said  Nan,  in  some  sur 
prise.  "  /  don't  care  what  room  I  'm  in.  If  it  troubles 
you  —  " 

"It  does  n't.  It  won't.  If  it  should,  it  is  my  place 
to  go." 

"  Nonsense ! "   Nan  turned  back. 

"  Nan,"  asked  Octavia,  hesitatingly,  —  it  almost 
seemed  wistfully,  —  "Nan,  is  he  coming  to-night?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Nan,  promptly  and  with  calm 
certainty. 

"  Then  —  then  you  are  only  waiting  ? " 

"Only  waiting,"  Nan  said.  "It  does  n't  make  any 
difference  where  I  wait.  I  might  go  out  on  the  piazza. 
It's  warm  enough." 

Octavia  made  no  reply  and  Nan  looked  over  at  her. 
She  saw  two  tears  roll  slowly  down  her  cheeks  and 
drop  into  her  lap.  There  was  no  motion  to  stop 
them. 

"Why,  Octavia!"  Nan  cried.  "What  ever  is  the 
matter?" 

Octavia  turned  suddenly  away  and  buried  her  face 
in  the  cushion.  "I  —  I  want  my  Jack,"  she  sobbed. 

286 


OLD  HARBOR 


Nan  was  amazed  and  dismayed.  "Jack  Haight!" 
She  found  it  hard  to  believe  her  ears. 

"Yes,  Jack  Haight." 

"But,  Octavia,  he  has  done  all  sorts  of  things  that 
he  should  n't.  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  abused  you." 

Octavia  was  sitting  up  now,  wiping  her  eyes.  She 
did  not  look  at  Nan. 

"He  did  n't,"  she  said.  "Anyway,  it  was  as  much 
my  fault  as  his.  I  want  him." 

Nan  could  not  get  over  her  amazement. 

"Do  you  know  where  he  is?"  asked  Octavia. 

"No,"  replied  Nan.  "I  have  his  address,  but  that 
is  just  the  place  where  I  should  n't  expect  to  find 
him." 

"Nan  —  " 

Nancy  Hedge  was  wise  in  her  generation.  "Oh, 
I'll  give  it  to  you,"  she  said.  "If  it's  a  mistake,  the 
consequences  be  on  your  own  head." 

Octavia  turned  to  Nan;  but  Nan  had  already  gone 
to  one  of  the  long  windows  and  opened  it.  She  stepped 
out  on  to  the  piazza  and  walked  aimlessly  up  and  down. 
In  less  than  ten  minutes  she  came  in  again,  leaving 
the  window  open,  and  began  to  whistle. 

Nan  was  an  expert  whistler.  She  always  whistled 
with  a  liquid  smoothness  like  a  bird's,  and  she  could 
execute,  in  perfection,  runs  and  trills  and  roulades 
and  all  the  other  things  of  which  I  do  not,  at  the  mo 
ment,  recall  the  names.  Names  or  not,  Nan  could 
whistle  them;  and  she  did  whistle  them  now. 

287 


OLD   HARBOR 


Octavia  smiled  with  pleasure.  Octavia  was  ready 
enough  to  smile  at  anything,  now.  But  it  was  not 
strange  that  Nan's  performance  gave  her  pleasure,  for 
it  was  a  very  excellent  performance.  It  gave  somebody 
else  pleasure,  too,  apparently;  for  when  Nan  paused, 
Jack  Catherwood  stepped  in  at  the  window. 

"May  I  come  in  rather  unceremoniously?"  he 
asked,  going  up  to  Nan. 

There  was  a  welcome  in  Nan's  eyes.  "Any  way," 
she  said,  giving  him  her  hand,  —  "  any  way,  so  long 
as  you  come." 

He  turned  and  gave  a  good-evening  to  Octavia,  who 
was  looking  tolerant,  at  least.  Then  he  turned  again 
to  Nan.  "I  say,  Nan,  you  never  told  me  you  could 
whistle  like  that.  Why  have  n't  you  done  it  for  me 
before  ?  " 

Nan  smiled  and  swept  him  a  curtsey.  "  Thanks,  gen 
erous  public,"  she  said.  "  I  have  not  told  you  because 
of  my  innate  modesty.  I  like  to  surprise  you,  some 
times.  If  I  did  n't  have  a  surprise  for  you  occasionally, 
where  should  I  be?" 

Jack  laughed.  "I  have  no  doubt  that  you'll  have 
surprises  enough  for  me,  of  one  kind  or  another,  to  keep 
me  guessing.  Is  n't  the  performance  to  continue?" 

"  If  you  like,"  said  Nan ;  and  she  went  to  the  piano 
and  launched  at  once  into  an  aria. 

Nan  swung  about  on  the  piano  stool.  "There ! "  she 
said.  "  Does  that  suit  your  highness  ?  That  '11  be  about 
all." 

288 


OLD  HARBOR 


Octavia  judged  that  the  time  had  come  for  her  to  go, 
and  accordingly  she  went,  with  a  word  to  Jack  and 
a  significant  glance  at  Nan.  Jack  seemed  very  much 
elated  about  something;  something  more  than  Nan's 
whistling,  although  Nan  would  have  had  no  objec 
tion  to  his  feeling  elated  about  that.  But  has  a  man  a 
right  to  feel  elated  over  the  accomplishments  of  his  — • 
his  — 

"  Nan,"  said  Jack,  breaking  into  the  current  of  her 
thoughts,  "  don't  you  want  to  come  out  on  the  piazza  ? 
I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

Nan  went,  without  a  word,  feeling  elated,  in  her  turn ; 
and  a  curious  choking  sensation  supervened,  as,  no 
doubt,  a  physician  or  a  surgeon  would  have  put  it.  But 
Doctor  Olcott  would  not  have  put  it  so ;  he  would  have 
chuckled  and  gone  home  at  once,  thinking  that  he 
knew  what  it  was  that  Jack  had  to  tell  her.  Nan 
thought  that  she  knew.  The  thought  made  her  almost 
dizzy.  It  was  curious  that  Nan  Hedge  should  have  been 
so  affected  by  a  mere  thought.  One  would  have  sup 
posed  that  the  experiences  Nan  was  believed  to  have 
had  would  have  made  her  proof  against  dizziness  from 
such  a  cause. 

Nan  seated  herself  on  a  little  wicker  settee  at  the  end 
of  the  piazza.  It  was  in  the  shadow  and  quite  hidden 
by  vines.  Why  she  selected  just  that  spot,  I  do  not  know ; 
but  she  must  have  selected  it,  for  she  had  moved  the 
settee  when  she  was  out  there  earlier  in  the  evening. 
It  was  not  heavy.  Being  seated,  there  was  just  room 

289 


OLD  HARBOR 


for  Jack  beside  her.  Indeed,  there  was  no  other  place 
for  him  to  sit,  unless  he  sat  upon  the  piazza  rail  or  upon 
the  floor  at  Nan's  feet.  Either  of  those  places  might 
have  proved  uncomfortable,  the  railing  being  no  more 
than  a  perch  where  the  vines  would  have  tickled  the 
back  of  his  neck ;  and  Jack  was  no  Oriental,  to  sit  upon 
a  floor  with  comfort.  Not  that  Jack  gave  a  thought  to 
these  matters,  but  it  may  be  supposed  that  Nan  had 
given  them  a  thought,  perhaps. 

"Well,  Jack,"  said  Nan,  softly,  "what  is  the  weighty 
matter  that  you  have  to  tell  me?" 

Jack  did  not  answer  immediately.  We  may  fancy 
him  struggling  with  his  emotions. 

"I  don't  know  just  where  to  begin,"  he  said,  at  last. 
"You  know  my  sketching  and  —  and  those  things." 

Nan  laughed.    "Indeed  I  do." 

"Well,  dad  has  been  keeping  an  eye  on  them,  it 
seems.  He  never  said  anything  about  them  but  once. 
But  he  had  a  long  talk  with  me  to-day." 

Nan  was  beginning  to  be  afraid.  "About  the 
sketches?"  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes,  primarily.  He  —  in  short,  he  offered  to  send 
me  away  to  study,  to  New  York  or  Paris,  whichever  I 
preferred,  for  a  year  or  two." 

When  Nan  spoke  again,  her  voice  sounded  strained 
and  queer.  "No  doubt  you  find  that  very  attractive. 
Which  shall  you  choose?" 

"I  think  I  shall  try  New  York,  first,"  said  Jack. 
"Then  I  can  go  to  Paris,  if  I  find  that  is  best." 

290 


OLD   HARBOR 


"  I  was  in  Paris,  last,  two  years  ago,"  Nan  remarked, 
trying  to  control  her  voice ;  she  succeeded  pretty  well  — 
pretty  well,  considering.  "  It  is  a  year,  almost,  since  I 
was  in  New  York.  I  suppose  you  are  to  be  congratu 
lated,  Jack.  But  I  —  I  —  " 

Jack  thought  it  queer  —  at  last.  Anybody,  knowing 
Nan  Hedge,  would  have  thought  it  queer.  He  could  not 
see  Nan's  face  well  —  it  was  rather  dark  in  that  corner. 
He  bent  nearer,  in  order  to  see  it  better.  He  had  to  get 
pretty  near ;  and  then  he  saw  that  her  teeth  were  shut 
tightly  over  her  lower  lip  and  she  was  looking  down  at 
her  hands,  without  seeing  them,  perhaps  because  her 
eyes  were  full  of  tears.  He  did  not  know.  And,  because 
—  but  I  do  not  know  the  reason  —  he  did  what  he  had 
not  contemplated  doing.  At  least,  I  have  no  reason  to 
think  that  he  had  contemplated  doing  it. 

He  took  Nan's  unresisting  hand.  "Why,  Nan!"  he 
cried  softly.  "Why,  Nan!  What  is  it?" 

Nan  leaned  against  his  shoulder  and  cried  gently. 
He  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"Why,  Nan!"  he  said  again.  "Nan,  dear,  don't; 
please  don't."  He  kissed  her,  again  and  again.  "Do 
you  love  me,  Nan,  a  little  ?"  He  was  whispering,  very 
low,  in  her  ear. 

"  Oh,  Jack,  Jack ! "  she  said,  hiding  her  face.  "  You 
do  care,  don't  you,  Jack?  I  thought  — " 

"Of  course  I  care,"  said  Jack,  interrupting  her.  He 
seemed  to  resent  anybody's  thinking  that  he  did  not 
care,  although,  five  minutes  before,  he  might  not  have 

291 


OLD  HARBOR 


resented  it;  he  might  even  have  agreed.  "Of  course 
I  care!  How  could  I  help  it?" 

Nan  smiled  somewhat  bitterly;  but  Jack  could  not 
see  it.  "Did  you  want  to  help  it?  No,  you  need  not 
answer.  I  —  I  thought  that  you  would  have  gone  away 
from  me  for  two  years  without  regret.  And  —  and 
I  lost  control  of  myself.  I  don't  often  lose  control 
of  myself.  I'm  ashamed  that  I  did  then.  Forgive 
me." 

He  kissed  her  again,  passionately.  "Forgive  you!" 
he  said.  "It's  lucky  you  did."  Nan  seemed  to  him, 
then,  much  to  be  desired. 

She  put  up  her  arms  and  drew  his  head  down  to  hers. 
"See,  dear,"  she  whispered.  "I  have  never  done  this 
before,  whatever  people  may  think  of  me."  She  kissed 
him  on  the  lips;  a  long  kiss. 

Jack  still  held  her  close.  "  Why,  Nan ! "  he  said  in 
dignantly.  "What  makes  you  think  that  people  say 
such  things  of  you  ?  They  don't ;  or,  at  least,  I  never 
heard  them." 

Nan  laughed  happily.  "Of  course  you  have  n't, 
stupid.  You  would  be  the  last  person  they  would  say 
it  to.  I  did  n't  say  they  said  such  things.  They  only 
think  them.  I'm  not  a  fool,  and  I  know  very  well  that 
the  Old  Harbor  people  think  the  worst  that  can  be 
imagined  of  me,  except  the  dear  Miss  Tiltons  and  Miss 
Mervin  and  Mr.  Ransome  and,  possibly,  your  father 
and  —  and  you,  Jack,  dearest."  Again  she  hid  her 
face  on  his  shoulder,  while  Jack  did — well,  what 

292 


OLD  HARBOR 


would  you  think  he  would  do  ?  What  would  you  have 
done,  in  his  place? 

"I've  never  done  anything,  really,"  Nan  went  on, 
presently.  "  It 's  only  that  our  ways  are  not  the  same  as 
your  ways.  I've  had  very,  very  few  experiences  that  I 
might  not  have  had  if  I'd  been  born  here.  I'm  sorry 
for  those  few.  They  were  only  such  as  you  might  ex 
pect  —  we  live  a  different  life.  I  wish  I  had  n't ! "  she 
cried.  "I  wish  I  had  n't!  I  wish  that  I'd  been  born 
here!" 

Why  pursue  them  further?  Jack  did  all  that  could 
have  been  expected  of  him  by  the  most  exacting  girl ; 
and  Nan  was  not  exacting.  She  seemed,  rather,  grate 
ful.  It  is  to  be  remembered  that  Nan  had  fallen  in  love 
with  Old  Harbor  and  its  ways.  She  was  starved  for 
affection  —  real  affection ;  not  the  affection  that  buys 
you  a  seal  cloak  and  goes  unconcernedly  about  its 
business.  Nan  had  had  her  fill  of  the  seal  cloak  kind  of 
love;  until  within  a  few  months,  she  had  known  no 
thing  of  the  kind  that  the  Miss  Tiltons  had  to  give.  It 
is  not  strange,  perhaps,  that  she  liked  it. 

Jack  was  late  in  getting  home  that  evening.  He 
smiled  to  himself  as  he  went  up  the  long  walk ;  he  felt 
dizzy,  as  if  he  had  been  drinking  too  much.  His  mother 
was  waiting  for  him,  looking  somewhat  anxious.  He 
did  not  tell  her.  He  thought  the  matter  would  keep 
for  two  or  three  days.  Indeed,  he  would  not  have 
known  just  what  to  tell.  Was  he  engaged  ?  He  sup 
posed  so.  Was  he  glad  ?  Again,  he  supposed  so.  Nan 

293 


OLD  HARBOR 


Hedge  was  still  much  to  be  desired.  And,  in  the  happy 
frame  of  mind  of  the  man  who  has  been  drinking  a 
little  too  much,  but  not  enough  to  give  him  a  headache 
in  the  morning,  he  went  up  to  bed  and  to  sleep. 

Nan  went  to  bed,  too,  but  she  did  not  go  to  sleep  for 
hours. 


FOR  a  long  time  after  Jack  had  gone  he  wrote  to  Nan 
regularly  and  very  often ;  almost  every  day.  Nan  would 
have  liked  to  write  him  every  day,  —  perhaps  even 
twice  a  day,  —  but  she  did  not.  She  schooled  herself 
carefully  to  refrain  from  indulgence  in  that  pastime 
oftener  than  four  times  a  week.  Jack's  letters  were  all 
that  could  be  desired  by  Nan :  just  enough  of  the  news 
and  the  rest  just  plain  love-letter.  Nan's  were  even 
better.  She  did  not  mean  that  he  should  be  cloyed  with 
sweets,  and  she  gave  him  just  enough  of  it  to  make  him 
wish  for  more.  Nan  was  very  skillful  at  letter-writing, 
as  she  was  at  everything  that  she  put  her  mind  to.  I 
am  not  going  to  give  you  samples  of  their  letters,  for 
I  have  n't  any  by  me.  If  I  had,  I  should  n't  publish 
them.  There  are  some  kinds  of  letters  that  should  not 
be  published,  —  a  good  many,  doubtless,  —  and  love- 
letters  are  of  those  kinds. 

The  temptation  was  strong  for  Nan  to  go  and  show 
Mrs.  Catherwood  parts  of  her  letters, — parts  of  them, 
—  and  to  be  shown,  in  return,  parts  of  Jack's  letters  to 
his  family.  She  did  not  yield  to  that  temptation.  For 
we  may  be  sure  that  Mrs.  Catherwood's  attitude  was 
as  obvious  to  Nan  as  it  is  to  us.  She  even  felt  certain 
that  Jack  had  said  nothing  to  his  mother  of  their  rela- 

295 


OLD  HARBOR 


tions  —  their  engagement,  This  humiliated  her  a  little, 
but  she  did  not  show  it.  Instead,  she  made  Jack  feel 
that  it  was  by  her  wish  that  he  had  not  spoken  of  it. 
Really,  it  was  due  to  nothing  but  laziness  on  Jack's 
part.  He  does  not  seem  to  be  much  of  a  hero,  does  he  ? 
He  was  not ;  only  a  thoughtless,  well-intending,  essen 
tially  good  and  clean-minded  young  man.  There  are 
many  such. 

If  Nan  could  not  have  the  satisfaction  of  showing 
parts  of  her  letters  to  Mrs.  Catherwood  and  getting 
something  that  she  very  much  wanted  in  return,  there 
were  the  Tiltons.  Jack  wrote  to  them  frequently ;  not 
every  day,  nor  anything  like  it,  but  often.  Nan  went 
there  every  day,  as  she  had  done  for  a  long  time,  and 
she  usually  had  some  letters  of  Jack's  concealed  about 
her,  somewhere. 

She  read,  to  her  interested  audience  of  two,  Jack's 
account  of  his  arrival,  his  unavailing  hunt  for  any  of 
those  whom  he  had  selected  as  possible  masters.  Of 
course,  they  had  scattered  to  the  four  winds  at  the 
approach  of  warm  weather. 

"  Why,  Nan,"  said  Susie,  in  some  surprise,  "  does  n't 
anybody  stay  in  New  York  in  the  summer?" 

Nan  laughed.  "Well,"  she  replied  slowly,  "nobody 
that  can  get  out  of  it.  It's  getting  to  be  pretty  much 
deserted." 

"  Oh,  sister ! "  cried  Miss  Susie.  "  Think  of  it !  That 
great  city,  of  millions  of  inhabitants,  deserted  !"  Miss 
Hitty  laughed.  "But,  Nan,"  continued  Miss  Susie, 

296 


OLD   HARBOR 


much  puzzled,  "do  they  shut  up  all  the  shops  and  the 
offices  ?  How  do  those  people  manage  to  go  away  ?  It 
must  cost  a  lot." 

Nan  did  not  laugh,  this  time.  "  Oh,  they  stay.  They 
have  to.  I  've  no  doubt  they  are  very  comfortable; 
much  more  comfortable  than  they  would  be  if  they  were 
shut  up  in  a  little  box  of  a  room  at  a  summer  hotel, 
for  instance.  The  climate  of  New  York  is  n't  half 
bad.  In  the  tenements,!  suppose,  it's  not  comfortable. 
I  don't  know  anything  about  them." 

"Oh,  the  poor  people!"  sighed  Miss  Susie. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  could  drag  them  away," 
Nan  returned.  "I  doubt  it.  They  would  be  the  poor 
people  wherever  they  were,  most  of  them.  But  I  ought 
to  have  thought  that  Jack  would  n't  find  anybody  he 
wanted." 

Another  day  she  read,  to  the  same  audience  of  two, 
the  account  of  Jack's  finding,  at  last,  one  of  the  men 
he  was  after,  who  had  retired  to  the  mountains,  as  was 
his  custom  during  the  summer,  with  his  class  at  his 
heels ;  reminding  one,  for  all  the  world,  of  a  hen  with 
a  brood  of  chickens. 

"  It 's  not  so  very  far,"  said  Nan,  when  she  had  read  it 
all,  and  had  shown  both  the  Miss  Tiltons  where  it  ought 
to  be,  in  their  old  atlas  —  an  atlas  fifty  years  old. 
"  It 's  not  more  than  two  hundred  miles.  He  ought  to 
be  able  to  get  home  once  in  a  while." 

The  next  time  Nan  went  there  with  a  new  letter,  Miss 
Susie  hailed  her  delightedly  from  the  upper  landing. 

297 


OLD   HARBOR 


"  Oh,  Nan,  dear,  we've  got  something  to  show  you." 

"Have  you?"  Nan  replied.    "So  have  I." 

Miss  Hitty  heard  her,  and  Nan  found  her  laughing 
quietly,  in  her  chair  by  the  window. 

"So  you've 'got  something  to  show  you, 'have  you, 
Nancy?"  she  asked,  holding  her  off  by  both  hands. 
"Won't  you  show  it  to  us?" 

"No,  you  old  dear,"  Nan  answered  promptly,  "I 
won't.  I'll  read  you  selections  from  it.  Expurgated, 
you  know.  I  don't  think  it  would  be  suitable  to  put 
into  the  hands  of  a  female  of  your  tender  years." 

"Fiddlesticks,  Nancy!"  cried  Miss  Hitty,  laughing. 
"So  that's  the  kind  of  letter  that  Jack  writes  you!" 

Miss  Susie  had  listened  in  wide-eyed  horror.  "  Oh, 
sister  /"  she  cried,  in  distress.  "Of  course  Jack's  let 
ters  to  Nan  are  not  —  not  —  improper." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Susie,"  Miss  Hitty  said  dryly. 
"Nobody  supposed  they  were." 

Nan  was  blushing.  It  was  very  becoming.  "They 
are  not  improper,  Miss  Susie,"  she  explained ;  "  but  I 
can't  give  them  to  you  and  Miss  Hitty  to  read,  be 
cause  —  because  — 

"I  understand,  Nancy,  dear,"  Miss  Hitty  said,  in  a 
low  voice,  leaning  toward  Nan  to  pat  her  hand,  "per 
fectly.  I've  no  doubt  Susie  does,  too.  I've  had  the 
same  kind  of  letters  myself,  fifty  years  ago, —  bless 
me,  it's  nearer  sixty, — when  a  letter  meant  more  than 
it  does  now.  After  all,  I  don't  know  as  it  did,"  she 
added  quickly.  "  Mine  did  n't.  Mine  were  from  — 

298 


OLD   HARBOR 


but  I  won't  tell  you.  You  might  have  known  him  —  or 
of  him.    Let's  have  your  selections." 

Nan  had  pressed  Miss  Kitty's  hand  gently  when  she 
spoke  of  her  letters,  but  she  said  nothing.  She  began 
turning  over  the  sheets  of  her  letter,  reading  a  passage 
here  and  there,  and  once  she  read  a  whole  page.  There 
was  no  news  of  consequence,  and  Miss  Susie  could 
scarcely  restrain  her  impatience;  she  could  not  dis 
guise  it. 

When  Nan  had  finished,  she  looked  up.  "You  two 
people  don't  seem  to  think  much  of  my  selections." 

"They're  too  thoroughly  expurgated,"  said  Miss 
Hitty,  smiling.  "Besides,  we've  got  more  news  than 
you  have.  Show  it  to  her,  Susie." 

At  which  Miss  Susie  unfolded  a  letter  which  she  had 
been  holding  crumpled  up  in  her  impatient  hand,  and 
put  it  in  Nan's  lap,  with  a  flourish.  "  There ! "  she  said ; 
"read  that." 

Nan  could  not  help  a  feeling  of  jealousy  that  any 
body  should  have  more  news  from  Jack  than  she  had, 
but  she  read  their  letter  through.  It  was  not  nearly  so 
long  as  hers.  That  made  her  feel  better.  As  she  got 
near  the  end,  her  face  lighted  up. 

"  So  Jack  's  coming  home  to-morrow,"  she  said 
softly.  "  I  don't  wonder  that  you  thought  mine  tame. 
But  I  confess  that  I  'm  jealous.  Why  did  n't  he  tell  me  ?  " 

"I've  no  doubt  he  wanted  to  surprise  you,  dear," 
said  Miss  Hitty.  "  I  thought  it  would  be  a  pity  to  deny 
you  the  pleasure  of  knowing." 

299 


OLD  HARBOR 


"Thank  you,"  Nan  said  simply. 

The  explanation  that  Miss  Hitty  gave  may  have  been 
the  correct  one.  It  did  not  thoroughly  satisfy  Nan. 
Jack  came  home  for  three  days,  and,  if  he  had  had  any 
sneaking  idea  that  he  would  not  see  Nan,  he  abandoned 
it.  Indeed,  he  was  at  Nan's  for  the  whole  of  three  long 
evenings,  although  he  knew  that  he  was  thereby  risking 
having  to  tell  his  mother  more  than  he  was  ready  to 
tell  yet.  But  he  was  not  called  upon  to  tell  his  mother 
anything,  and  he  went  away  unconsciously  hoping  that 
she  had  not  guessed.  Mrs.  Catherwood  had  not  guessed 
it  all,  but  she  had  guessed  enough  to  make  her  very  un 
comfortable,  and  to  make  her  watch  Nan  more  closely. 

She  would  not  spy  upon  Nan  as  Miss  Wetherbee 
would  have  done  in  a  similar  situation ;  as  Miss  Wether- 
bee  would  have  liked  to  do,  even  as  matters  were,  if  she 
had  been  able.  Nan  might  have  had  something  to  say 
about  that;  it  is  conceivable  that  she  might  even  have 
said  it,  for  she  was  without  fear.  So,  if  Mrs.  Cather 
wood  did  not  attempt  to  spy  upon  Nan,  she  used  every 
legitimate  method  of  knowing  more  about  her,  even  to 
calling  upon  her  twice  in  the  next  three  weeks.  It  was 
rather  a  strain ;  the  more  so,  as  she  was  unable  to  dis 
cover  anything  that  was  not  to  Nan's  credit.  It  is  to  be 
feared  that  Mrs.  Catherwood  was  not  cut  out  for  a 
detective. 

"Mary  Catherwood,"  said  Miss  Hitty,  one  after 
noon,  not  long  after,  when  Mrs.  Catherwood  had 
dropped  in  there,  —  if  one  can  be  said  to  drop  up  two 

300 


OLD   HARBOR 


flights  of  stairs,  —   "  Mary  Catherwood,  what  possesses 
you  to  be  so  down  on  Nancy  Hedge  ?   She's  a  good  girl 
—  a  dear  girl.    I  know." 

Mrs.  Catherwood  smiled  rather  ruefully.  "  My  own 
opinion,"  she  replied,  "  is  being  forced  in  that  direction. 
But  she  has  ways  that  —  that  —  " 

"Ways!"  sniffed  Miss  Hitty,  scornfully.  "Fiddle 
sticks  !  Everybody  has  ways.  No  doubt  our  ways,  here 
in  Old  Harbor,  seem  just  as  queer  to  her  and  just  as 
objectionable.  We  have  ways  that  are  —  what  is  the 
word  ?  —  provincial.  Oh,  there's  no  doubt  about  it." 

For  Mrs.  Catherwood  plainly  resented  being  called 
provincial,  although  there  was  some  allowance  to  be 
made  for  Miss  Hitty.  She  was  Miss  Hitty  Tilton,  and 
there  was  nobody  in  the  whole  world  just  like  her. 
There  could  not  be.  There  might  be  others  in  some 
other  Old  Harbor  that  were  tarred  with  the  same 
brush.  There  was  no  other  Miss  Hitty.  In  spite  of  her 
brusque  manner,  everybody  liked  Miss  Hitty,  even 
MacLean. 

"Has  she  called  us  provincial ?"  asked  Mrs.  Cather 
wood,  quietly. 

"  Of  course  she  has  n't,"  snapped  Miss  Hitty,  as 
though  she  was  ready  to  bite  her  visitor's  head  off. 
"  Of  course  she  has  n't.  Nancy  does  n't  say  such 
things.  She  does  n't  call  us  names,  although  I've  no 
doubt  much  worse  things  have  been  said  of  her  —  the 
stranger  within  our  gates  —  by  our  own  people." 

"Not  by  me." 

301 


OLD   HARBOR 


"  No,"  said  Miss  Hitty,  grudgingly.  "  You  would  not, 
but  plenty  have.  She  is  every  bit  as  good  as  Jack.  You 
know  that  I'm  fond  of  Jack,  but  I  believe  that  I'm 
fonder  of  Nancy." 

Mrs.  Catherwood  laughed.  "Jack  has  his  faults.  I 
should  be  the  last  to  contend  that  he  had  n't." 

"Well,  not  to  hurt.  He'll  get  over  most  of  'em." 

Then  Miss  Susie  came  in  and  they  dropped  the  sub 
ject;  and  soon  after,  Mrs.  Catherwood  went  home 
feeling  pleased,  although  she  could  not  have  told  why. 

The  next  time  Jack  came  home  and  was  starting  out 
for  the  evening,  his  mother  went  out  into  the  hall  to  see 
him  safely  off.  Jack  was  somewhat  apprehensive. 

"Good-by,  Jackie,"  she  said.  "Give  my  love  to 
Miss  Hedge." 

To  say  that  Jack  was  surprised  would  be  putting  it 
too  mildly.  His  face  expressed  all  shades  of  astonish 
ment,  and  he  laughed  in  embarrassed  fashion. 

"  It  has  hardly  reached  that  point,  mother,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  will.  She  '11  be  glad  to  get  the  message,  no 
doubt." 

Then  he  went  out,  hastily.  Once  outside,  where  he 
had  a  chance  to  think,  he  was  half  of  the  mind  to  go 
back  and  tell  her.  He  had  had  the  opportunity,  and  in 
his  haste  and  confusion  he  had  almost  lied.  He  had  to 
confess  to  himself  that  he  had  not  shone.  He  had  not 
toed  the  mark.  Instead,  he  had  failed,  lamentably,  to 
show  himself  the  man  he  thought  he  was.  But  he  did 
not  go  back.  He  was  already  at  the  gate,  and  it  would 

302 


OLD  HARBOR 


be  time  enough  when  he  got  back.  So  he  went  on  to 
Nan's.  By  the  time  he  got  home  again,  everybody  had 
gone  to  bed.  Jack  was  rather  glad.  Some  other  time, 
soon,  would  do.  Jack  had  had  his  chance.  Never  again 
would  it  be  so  easy  for  him  to  tell  his  mother  what  she 
had  a  right  to  know. 

It  was  some  time  after  that  that  Miss  Hitty  began  to 
notice  that  there  was  something  the  matter  with  Nan's 
spirits.  Once  forced  upon  her  attention,  she  was  aware 
that  it  had  been  going  on  for  some  weeks  and  getting 
worse.  It  is  a  progressive  malady :  progressive  in  one 
direction  or  the  other.  It  was  her  way  to  be  direct,  and 
she  spoke  of  it.  Miss  Susie  was  out. 

"  Now,  Nancy,"  she  said,  "  you  are  not  as  sprightly  as 
you  used  to  be,  or  as  you  ought  to  be.  An  engaged  girl 
ought  not  to  be  down  in  the  mouth." 

Nan  betrayed  no  emotion  unless  her  smile  expressed 
amusement.  "Perhaps  it  is  because  I  don't  try.  If  I 
'  make  some  effuts,'  as  our  German  teacher  used  to  urge 
me  to,  I  might  be  more  so.  But  what  makes  you  think 
I  am  engaged  ?  " 

"Chut,  Nancy!"  said  Miss  Hitty.  "Don't  try  to 
deceive  me.  I  know  it  as  well  as  if  you  had  told  me. 
Now,  what's  the  matter?  Has  Jack  done  anything?'* 

"  No,"  Nan  replied,  with  a  patient  smile  which  wrung 
Miss  Hitty 's  heart ;  "  no,  Jack  has  n't  done  anything. 
Perhaps  that 's  the  matter  —  or  maybe  I  'm  not  alto 
gether  well.  I  think  I  can  be  more  sprightly  without 
working  too  hard." 

303 


OLD   HARBOR 


"Well,"  observed  Miss  Hitty,  grimly,  "when  Jack 
comes  home  again,  I  '11  see  him  and  I  '11  settle  that  young 
man.  If  he  hasn't  done  anything,  he's  responsible, 
anyway,  for  our  Nancy's  good  spirits." 

Nan  seized  her  hand.  "  Oh,  thank  you  for  the  intent," 
she  cried,  "but  please  don't." 

"Don't  what?"  asked  Miss  Hitty. 

"  Don't  settle  him,"  said  Nan ;  and  she  kissed  the  old 
woman  on  both  cheeks.  They  both  laughed  softly. 

Miss  Hitty  kept  tight  hold  of  Nan's  hand.  "Well, 
Nancy,  dear,"  she  said,  looking  into  her  face  more 
affectionately  than  one  would  have  thought  that  Miss 
Hitty  could  look, —  "well,  Nancy,  dear,  if  you  don't 
want  me  to,  I  won't.  But  I  mean  to  keep  an  eye  on 
you,  and  if  I  think  it  absolutely  necessary  to  speak  to 
Jack,  I  shall  have  to  do  it.  WTe  are  all  responsible." 

When  Miss  Susie  came  in,  Nan  bespoke  their  careful 
attention.  She  had  something  important  to  ask  them. 
"You  want  to  do  something  that  will  please  me  very 
much,  don't  you?"  she  asked. 

Miss  Susie  assented  enthusiastically,  Miss  Hitty  no 
less  certainly;  but  she  wanted  to  know  what  it  was 
before  she  agreed  to  it. 

"  Well,"  said  Nan,  smiling,  and  with  a  pretty  color, 
"you  know  that  I  am  a  wild  young  thing  and  commit 
shocking  improprieties  unless  I  am  properly  looked 
after." 

"  Oh,  Nan,"  cried  Miss  Susie,  "  how  can  you  say  such 
things?" 

304. 


OLD   HARBOR 


Miss  Hitty  smiled  at  her  and  patted  her  hand. 

"Oh,"  said  Nan,  "that's  nothing,  only  an  instance. 
Octavia  's  much  worse  than  I.  Besides,  I  don't  feel 
sure  that  she'll  be  able  to  stay  a  great  while  longer. 
I  —  I  thought  it  would  be  very  nice  —  very  nice  for 
me  —  if  you  would  move  back  to  your  house  again." 

"  Nancy,  Nancy ! "  Miss  Hitty  said,  very  gently  for 
her,  —  for  anybody,  —  still  patting  Nan's  hand  and 
smiling.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

Miss  Susie  did  not  take  it  in  immediately.  "Why, 
Nan,"  she  asked,  in  bewilderment,  "what  do  you 
mean  ?  We  have  n't  any  house  now." 

"Come  and  live  with  me,"  Nan  said  quietly;  "both 
of  you.  You  shall  have  your  old  rooms  and  anything 
else  you  want.  Please !"  she  urged,  seeing  Miss  Hitty 's 
face.  "I  need  you." 

"Oh,  Nan!"  began  Miss  Susie.    "I  — " 

"Nancy,  dear,"  said  Miss  Hitty,  interrupting  her 
sister,  "you  know  we  can't.  It  is  dear  and  kind  in  you 
to  want  us,  but  we  can't." 

"Now,  why  not?"  Nan  insisted.  "I  said  I  needed 
you." 

Miss  Hitty  smiled  again,  with  amusement  this  time. 
"Oh,  but  you  don't,"  she  said.  "You  can't  fool  me." 

Miss  Hitty  had  been  growing  gradually  feebler  as  the 
summer  went  on.  Nan  had  seen  it;  she  was  one  of  the 
very  few  who  were  aware  of  it.  Miss  Hitty  herself  was 
another. 

Nan  looked  as  if  she  would  like  to  cry,  but  she  did 
305 


OLD   HARBOR 


not.  "  Do  you  know,"  she  asked,  "  that  it  is  very  selfish 
and  mean  in  you  to  refuse  my  invitation  and  to  deny  to 
a  poor,  unprotected  girl  the  solace  of  your  presence? 
It  is  mean  in  you  to  make  me  downer  in  the  mouth 
than  ever.  How  can  you  expect  me  to  be  sprightly?" 

"  You  know  us,"  remarked  Miss  Hitty,  "  and  I  know 
you,  Nancy  Hedge." 

"I'm  going  home,"  said  Nan,  with  an  injured  air, 
"with  my  despised  invitations." 

She  got  up  and  kissed  Miss  Susie ;  then,  saying,  "  You 
don't  deserve  it  —  not  in  the  least,"  she  kissed  Miss 
Hitty  and  went  out. 

"  Oh,  sister  I "  cried  Miss  Susie,  when  Nan  was  out 
of  hearing.  "  How  could  you  be  so  —  so  decided  ?  I  'm 
afraid  that  you  hurt  Nan's  feelings." 

"Fiddlesticks!" 

"It  would  be  so  nice,"  continued  Miss  Susie,  wist 
fully,  "  if  we  could  go  back  to  the  house  with  no  anxie 
ties  about  keeping  it  in  order." 

"Well,  we  can't,"  snapped  Miss  Hitty.  "I'm 
ashamed  of  you,  Susie.  You're  a  —  no,  you're  not  a 
fool,  but  you  don't  understand.  Nancy  does." 

At  which  Miss  Susie  began  to  cry  softly.  Her  crying 
always  irritated  Miss  Hitty. 

It  was  not  long  before  Jack  began  to  have  dealings 
with  the  magazines ;  very  slight  relations  they  were,  at 
first,  entered  into  through  his  teacher.  Jack  was  enthu 
siastic.  His  letters  to  Nan  were  full  of  that  important 
matter,  to  the  almost  total  exclusion  of  everything  else. 

306 


OLD   HARBOR 


Nan  missed  the  everything  else.  She  found  that  she  did 
not  care  much  for  the  matters  that  Jack  found  so  inter 
esting.  And,  with  important  business  as  his  excuse,  he 
wrote  but  once  a  week. 

Nan  threw  down  the  third  of  his  weekly  letters,  with 
an  exclamation  of  impatience. 

"  I  don't  care  a  yip  "  —  shocking  expression  —  where 
could  she  have  picked  it  up  ?  —  "  for  his  durned  old 
magazines,"  she  said  to  herself  —  an  even  more  shock 
ing  expression.  "  I  want  a  different  kind  of  a  letter." 
She  sighed.  "  I  '11  take  it  around  to  my  old  ladies ;  I  can 
give  it  to  them  to  read,  unexpurgated.  I  suppose  that 
I  ought  to  be  interested.  I  should  be,  if  he  had  only 
written  a  page  of  the  other  kind." 

Sighing  again,  she  started  for  the  Tiltons'.  On  her 
way,  she  came  upon  Constance,  who  gave  her  a  very 
friendly  smile.  Nan  drew  up  to  the  curb,  quickly,  on 
the  impulse  of  the  moment,  and  asked  if  she  did  n't 
want  to  get  in.  Constance  got  in,  very  readily.  She  had 
just  come  from  the  post-office,  where  she  had  found  a 
letter  from  Jack,  all  her  own ;  and  Jack  had  said  —  and 
Constance  rattled  on,  giving  Nan  the  news  with  which 
she  was  already  familiar.  But  it  was  a  comfort  to  have 
Constance  beside  her,  and  to  hear  her  talk  about  Jack. 
Nan  did  not  go  directly  to  the  Tiltons',  but  drove  aim 
lessly  about  the  streets  as  long  as  Constance  would. 
No  doubt  MacLean  saw  them  several  times. 

Jack,  in  his  enthusiasm,  even  wrote  to  his  father, 
urging  him  to  write  some  of  his  recollections  of  the  Civil 

307 


OLD  HARBOR 


War.  "Anything  about  the  war  goes,  now,  dad,"  he 
wrote,  "  especially  if  it  is  personal.  It  can't  be  too 
personal.  There  must  be  stacks  of  things  that  you  could 
haul  out  of  the  pigeon-holes  of  your  memory.  Do  it. 
The  writing  of  them  will  be  all  right.  Make  them  inti 
mate  —  just  talk.  They  would  go  like  hot  cakes.  I'll 
venture  to  say  that  I  could  dispose  of  them  at  the  first 
publisher's  I  tried ;  very  likely  to  the  first  magazine  I 
tried.  Colonel  Francis  Catherwood's  'Memoirs  of  the 
Civil  War.'  Will  you  do  it  ?" 

Colonel  Catherwood  pulled  out  a  drawer  full  to  the 
top  with  closely  written  sheets,  and  then  another  drawer 
half  full.  He  chuckled  as  he  looked  at  them. 

"I'll  think  of  it,  Jackie,"  he  said.  "I'll  think  of  it. 
Perhaps  I  will." 


NAN  and  Octavia  had  finished  their  dinner  in  a  silence 
that  was  almost  complete,  and  Octavia  had  seated  her 
self  in  an  easy-chair,  as  was  her  custom,  and  had  folded 
her  hands  and  had  been  doing  nothing,  apparently  with 
great  satisfaction,  as  was  also  her  custom.  Not  that 
Octavia  Haight  was  an  idle  or  an  inefficient  person, 
but  only  that,  when  she  had  nothing  to  do,  she  believed 
in  doing  nothing.  Even  her  brain  seemed  to  be  a  blank ; 
but  that  effect  was  not  sufficiently  unusual  to  attract 
attention  from  those  who  knew  her  well. 

Nan  wandered  about,  as  she  had  done  on  another 
occasion,  aimlessly,  in  and  out  of  the  long  window, 
doing  nothing  as  truly  as  Octavia,  but  making  hard 
work  of  it.  Her  restlessness  irritated  Octavia,  who 
looked  up  occasionally,  but  said  nothing.  The  silence 
continued.  Octavia's  method  of  doing  nothing  irritated 
Nan,  too.  Octavia  might  have  been  a  marble  statue, 
wonderfully  colored  by  some  great  artist.  She  did  not 
move  so  much  as  a  finger  or  her  eyes ;  only  her  breast 
rose  and  fell  slowly,  with  her  deep  and  regular  breath 
ing.  Nan  watched  it  for  some  time. 

"Octavia!"  she  said  suddenly.  It  would  have 
startled  most  people.  Octavia  only  looked  at  Nan 
quietly,  moving  her  head  slowly  for  the  purpose,  but 
she  did  not  speak. 

309 


OLD   HARBOR 


"  Octavia,"  said  Nan,  impatiently.  "  I  wonder  if  you 
would  sit  as  immovably  if  I  stuck  a  hat-pin  into  you." 

Octavia  smiled  slowly.  "  If  you  stuck  it  into  me  in 
the  right  place  and  quickly  enough,  I  might  be  even 
more  immovable,"  she  said.  "But  don't  you  try  it, 
Nan." 

"I'd  like  to  try  it,"  Nan  replied  maliciously.  "I'd 
like  to  shake  you." 

"  You  may  try  that,  if  you  like.  I  'm  stronger  than 
you." 

"Oh,  you  make  me  angry,"  Nan  cried.  "How  can 
you  sit  quietly  in  that  stuffed  chair,  this  hot  night?" 

"I'm  very  comfortable,"  said  Octavia,  with  another 
of  her  slow  smiles. 

Octavia's  smiles  irritated  Nan,  too,  and  her  coolness 
and  her  calmness  generally.  Nan  was  forgetting  that 
Octavia's  olive  skin  marked  her  as  suited  to  hot  weather. 
Nan  was  feeling  rather  low  in  her  mind,  though  she 
would  hardly  confess  it  to  herself,  much  less  to  Octavia. 
I  suppose  she  was  unduly  irritable, —  not  wholly  well, 
perhaps,  —  and  therefore  not  accountable  for  the  state 
of  her  temper. 

"Is  he  coming  to-night,  Nan?"  asked  Octavia. 

"I  don't  know,  I  'm  sure,"  answered  Nan,  impa 
tiently.  She  showed  none  of  that  calm  certainty  which 
she  had  displayed  on  that  other  occasion  of  wrhich 
I  have  spoken. 

"Don't  you  know  whether  he  came  home  or  not?" 
persisted  Octavia,  surprised. 

310 


OLD   HARBOR 


"Yes,  I  know  that  he  came  home,"  Nan  replied, 
more  impatiently  than  before,  "but  I  don't  know 
whether  he  is  coming  here  or  not.  Men  have  been 
known  to  change  their  minds  before  now,  Octavia,  as 
I  reminded  you  once  before.  I  don't  know  whether  he 
would  have  to  change  his  mind  to  come  or  to  stay 
away.  You  will  see,  if  you  wait  long  enough." 

"  Oh,"  said  Octavia,  quietly,  turning  a  dark  red.  "  I 
suppose  you  are  only  waiting,  then,  Nan?"  she  con 
tinued  sweetly. 

"Only  waiting,"  answered  Nan,  trying  to  keep  a 
clutch  on  her  temper.  She  muttered  something  under 
her  breath. 

Octavia  had  heard,  and  she  laughed  aloud,  low  and 
lazily.  Nan  turned,  her  eyes  blazing. 

"Octavia!"  she  began;  then  her  eyes  encountered 
Octavia's.  Octavia's  eyes  seemed  to  hold  a  quiet  scorn 
of  herself.  She  was  laughing  more  at  herself  than  at 
Nan.  Nan  relented.  "  Are  you  in  hard  luck,  too  ?  "  she 
asked.  "Have  n't  you  heard  from  him  yet?" 

"  Not  yet ;  not  a  word.  I  have  written  three  times.  I 
can't  do  more  in  self-respect." 

"I'm  sorry,  Octavia,  and  I  beg  your  pardon.  I'm 
nervous  and  tired  and  hot,  and  your  appearance  of  cool 
ness  and  calmness  exasperated  me.  Come,"  she  said, 
with  a  change  of  manner,  "  let 's  be  gay.  I  '11  whistle 
for  you." 

So  she  did,  Octavia  sitting  calmly,  with  no  more 
expression  than  the  marble  statue  that  she  had  seemed 

311 


OLD   HARBOR 


to  resemble.  At  the  end  of  an  hour,  Nan  stopped  and 
whirled  about  on  the  piano  stool. 

"I  guess  that'll  be  about  all,"  she  said.  "My  lips 
are  tired." 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Octavia,  "they  must  be.  Thank 
you,  Nan.  There  are  other  exercises  for  the  lips  that 
would  be  more  agreeable,  are  n't  there?" 

Nan  flushed  slowly,  and  rose,  without  reply,  and 
passed  out  of  the  long  window,  which  was  open.  She 
threw  herself  down  upon  the  seat  in  the  corner  of  the 
piazza,  —  it  was  shielded  by  vines,  you  remember,  and 
was  well  in  the  shadow,  —  and  put  her  head  down  upon 
her  arms.  It  was  long  after  nine.  Again  she  rose  and 
went  in. 

"I'm  going  to  bed,  Octavia.  Will  you  put  out  the 
lights  when  you  come  up?" 

Octavia  nodded.   " So  you've  given  him  up,  Nan ?" 

"It's  much  too  late  for  him,  now,"  Nan  replied. 
"You  may  have  observed  that  the  customs  here  are 
not  those  to  which  you  have  been  brought  up." 

"I  could  never  get  used  to  them." 

"I  could  if  I  had  the  chance,  and  I  would.  But 
our  Jacks  seem  to  be  Knaves  —  both  of  them.  Good 
night." 

Nan  went  up  to  her  room ;  but  not  to  bed.  She  sat 
in  the  dark  for  hours  at  her  open  window,  and 
watched  the  lights  go  out  in  the  other  houses  which  she 
could  see  through  the  trees,  and  watched  the  stars  and 
listened  to  the  quiet  noises  of  the  summer  night.  The 

312  • 


OLD   HARBOR 


crickets  throbbed  overpoweringly  in  a  chorus  which 
seemed  to  keep  time  with  the  beating  of  her  heart. 

What  Nan  could  not  know  was  that,  although  Jack 
Catherwood  had  come  home  that  afternoon,  he  had 
come  home  very  nearly  ill.  Mrs.  Catherwood  had 
promptly  insisted  upon  his  going  to  bed,  a  course  which 
he  was  too  dull  and  feverish  to  oppose.  He  had  the 
idea  that  he  would  be  able  to  get  up,  by  evening;  but 
when  the  evening  came,  he  did  not  remember  Nan  or 
his  engagement,  and  he  naturally  did  not  remember 
to  send  her  word,  which  he  would  certainly  have  done 
if  he  had  had  his  senses  about  him.  Mrs.  Catherwood 
might  even  have  done  it,  if  she  had  not  been  too  much 
occupied  to  think  about  it.  She  was  sitting  by  Jack, 
listening  to  his  disconnected  mutterings  in  his  uneasy 
sleep,  and  learning  much  that  she  had  been  able  to  do 
no  more  than  conjecture.  It  gave  her  something  to 
think  about.  She  roused  Jack  enough  to  give  him  a 
mustard  foot-bath  and  a  dose  of  some  simple  old- 
fashioned  remedy.  I  don't  know  what  it  was  —  nitre, 
perhaps;  and  it  may  not  have  done  a  particle  of  good, 
but  she  had  faith  in  it,  and  faith,  we  are  told,  is  the 
most  potent  agent.  Though  whether  faith  acts  vicari 
ously  to  produce  auto-suggestion  is  a  rather  nice  point, 
which  I  will  not  attempt  to  decide,  nor  will  I  attempt 
to  trace  the  connection  between  auto-suggestion  and 
the  typhoid  bacillus. 

At  any  rate,  Mrs.  Catherwood  piled  the  bedclothes 
on  Jack,  —  enough  to  smother  him  on  ordinary  occa- 

313 


OLD  HARBOR 


sions,  —  and  left  him,  in  the  most  absolute  faith,  to 
sweat  it  out.  Jack,  being  young  and  strong  and  well 
supplied  with  white  corpuscles,  if  they  have  not  been 
supplanted  by  something  else,  by  this  time,  —  with 
whatever  makes  the  fight  for  a  man,  at  all  events,  — 
proceeded  to  do  so.  In  the  morning,  he  found  himself 
rather  weak,  but  perfectly  clear  in  his  mind,  and  his 
first  thought,  we  may  suppose,  was  for  Nan.  At  least, 
he  made  several  attempts  to  get  word  to  her.  There 
was  some  obvious  difficulty  in  that  without  telling 
more  than  he  was  yet  prepared  to  tell.  Then,  thinking 
that  he  would  certainly  be  well  enough  to  go  to  see  her 
that  evening,  he  gave  up  trying. 

When  evening  came,  Jack  was  not  quite  well  enough 
to  go  out.  His  mother  had  no  great  difficulty  in  per 
suading  him  of  that,  wrhich  was  undoubtedly  true,  nor 
in  persuading  him  to  go  to  bed,  instead,  at  eight  o'clock. 
For  Jack  had  faith  in  Nan,  that  she  would  most  will 
ingly  forgive  his  absence  when  she  learned  the  reason. 
He  would  write  her  about  it  on  Monday,  as  soon  as 
ever  he  could.  It  did  not  once  occur  to  him  that  she 
might  not  believe  all  that  he  should  write  about  his  ill 
ness,  that  she  might  consider  it  an  excuse  and  nothing 
more;  " indisposition" is  capable  of  more  than  one  in 
terpretation.  Nan  could  not  know  that  Mrs.  Cather- 
wood  made  some  effort  to  send  word  that  night. 

In  this  case,  vicarious  faith  did  not  seem  to  result 
in  auto-suggestion.  Instead,  Nan  went  up  to  her  room 
early,  and  again  she  sat  in  the  dark  at  her  window. 

314 


OLD   HARBOR 


She  had  been  able  to  make  very  little  pretense,  with 
Mrs.  Haight,  of  feeling  other  than  wretched;  but  even 
Octavia,  making  allowance  for  the  pretense,  was  not 
aware  how  utterly  miserable  Nan,  alone  in  her  own 
room,  seemed  to  be.  She  did  not  cry  at  all,  which  was 
a  pity.  But  if  you  have  had  similar  feelings,  you  will 
know  just  how  she  felt,  without  my  enlarging  upon 
the  matter ;  if  you  have  not,  no  words  of  mine  could 
make  you  understand. 

Nan  went  about,  much  as  usual,  for  the  next  two 
days ;  she  said  little,  and  there  were  dark  rings  under 
her  eyes,  but  there  was  no  other  sign.  On  Tuesday, 
she  got  Jack's  letter.  No  doubt  Jack  had  made  a  mis 
take  in  writing  rather  slightingly  of  his  illness,  which 
his  mother  had  nipped  in  the  bud;  no  doubt  he  had 
made  an  even  greater  mistake  in  writing  of  it  as  ''  indis 
position."  He  had  the  young  man's  scorn  of  illness,  and 
was  naturally  somewhat  ashamed  that  he  should  have 
come  so  near  being  guilty  of  it.  Because  of  that  reason 
of  Jack's,  which  is  rather  commendable  than  otherwise, 
Nan,  feeling  as  she  did,  took  no  stock  in  his  excuses; 
for  excuses  they  seemed  to  her  to  be,  and  nothing  more. 

No,  Nan  could  not  know  all  of  what  was  in  Jack's 
mind  when  he  wrote,  although  she  may  have  known 
enough  to  justify  her  action ;  and  Jack  knew  even  less 
of  what  was  passing  in  Nan's  mind.  Failing  thus  of  a 
complete  understanding,  it  is  not  strange,  perhaps,  that 
they  should  have  fallen  into  a  misunderstanding  which 
was  more  or  less  complete. 

315 


OLD  HARBOR 


For  Nan,  having  considered  the  case  impartially  for 
almost  two  days,  was  forced  to  the  conclusion  that 
something  was  due  her  self-respect.  Seeing  no  escape, 
—  the  two  days  were  devoted  to  the  search  for  some 
way  of  escape,  which  would,  at  the  same  time,  save  her 
self-respect,  —  she  wrote  him,  releasing  him  from  the 
engagement.  It  was  necessary  to  assume  that  there 
was  an  engagement  from  which  to  release  him;  but 
Nan  had  no  compunctions  about  that,  as  she  was  about 
to  release  him  from  it.  Her  letter  was  very  gentle  and 
very  dignified  and  very  friendly,  and  she  was  an  inor 
dinately  long  time  in  writing  it.  She  must  have  wanted 
Jack  very  much;  too  much,  it  is  to  be  supposed,  to  be 
willing  to  allow  him  to  humiliate  her  so  much.  When 
she  had  got  the  letter  written,  at  last,  and  posted,  and 
had  burned  all  of  her  bridges,  she  went  up  to  her  room. 
She  wanted  to  cry  a  little,  but  she  did  not.  She  sat  at 
her  window,  looking  out  and  seeing  nothing,  and  Oc- 
tavia  had  to  send  up  for  her  three  times  before  she  came 
to  luncheon. 

Jack's  reply  to  her  letter  came  with  suspicious 
promptness,  and  in  it  he  accepted  all  that  Nan  had 
said,  with  dignity  and  gentleness  and  great  friendliness 
and  readiness;  almost  too  readily,  Nan  thought.  But 
Jack  was  unconscious  of  any  wrong  which  he  had  done, 
and  he  was  stiff-necked  accordingly  and  hurt  —  more 
hurt  than  he  would  have  believed  possible.  Knowing 
that  he  was  guilty  of  nothing,  he  was  forced  to  believe 
that  the  engagement,  such  as  it  was,  had  been  broken 

316 


OLD   HARBOR 


solely  because  of  some  whim  of  Nan's.  Jack  was  too 
young  not  to  be  proud  —  too  proud  to  be  willing  to 
question  Nan's  decision  or  to  ask  her  real  reasons.  It 
might  have  done  no  good  at  all  to  ask  them ;  but  it  is 
conceivable  that  it  might  have.  If  Jack  had  only  known 
enough  to  know  it,  Nan  was  waiting  and  hoping  for 
some  such  excuse.  To  Jack,  Nan  Hedge  seemed  more 
to  be  desired  than  ever. 

Miss  Hitty  saw  it  all.  Nan  could  not  hope  to  hide  it 
from  her.  She  asked  Nan  about  it,  and  she  even  wrote 
to  Jack  when  she  found  that  she  could  get  no  satisfac 
tion  from  Nan. 

"Jack  Catherwood,"  she  wrote,  "what  have  you 
been  doing  to  our  Nancy?  Answer  me,  and  tell  the 
truth." 

To  which  Jack  answered,  truthfully  enough,  that  he 
had  not  done  anything;  that  Nan,  herself,  had  written 
him,  releasing  him  from  the  engagement  and  giving 
no  adequate  reason  for  her  action.  He  did  not  see  that 
he  had  any  standing  at  all;  there  seemed  to  be  no 
thing  for  him  to  do  but  to  acquiesce.  He  supposed 
that  Nan  was  tired  of  it,  for  he  could  see  no  other  pos 
sible  reason. 

Miss  Hitty  did  not  show  this  letter  to  Nan  nor  to 
Susie.  It  was  her  own  private  affair  with  Jack.  But 
she  wrote  him  again.  "  Nan  is  not  tired  of  it.  She  is 
almost  broken-hearted.  There  is  some  misunderstand 
ing  here.  I  shall  keep  my  eye  on  you  two  young  folks, 
—  too  young  things,  I  might  as  well  have  said,  —  both 

317 


OLD   HARBOR 


of  you  too  proud  to  do  anything  to  clear  up  misunder 
standings.  Don't  let  it  go  so,  Jack.  Don't  do  as  I  did  — 
There!  it's  out.  I  might  have  been  your  own  grand 
mother,  if  I  had  not  been  a  mule.  This  is  between  you 
and  me.  Don't  you  go  and  tell.  And  hurry  up  about 
your  business.  I  may  not  last  very  much  longer.  Don't 
you  tell  that,  either." 

Jack  made  no  immediate  reply  to  this,  but  Miss 
Hitty  did  not  expect  any  reply.  She  knew  him. 

As  for  Nan,  she  had  taken  to  driving  incessantly; 
or  as  nearly  that  as  was  possible  with  but  one  horse 
that  she  cared  to  drive.  That  horse  lost  flesh  over  it, 
and  became  as  lean  as  a  horse  should  be.  Nan  may 
have  found  solace  in  driving  over  the  roads  where  she 
had  been  used  to  find  Jack;  over  those  roads,  again 
and  again,  stopping  now  and  then  to  let  her  imagi 
nary  companion  get  some  good  bit  of  composition,  then 
driving  on.  She  may  have  done  that  or  she  may  not ;  she 
never  told  me,  and  nobody  else  could  have  spoken  with 
authority.  But  as  she  was  coming  in  over  the  old 
Boston  stage-road,  one  day,  she  saw  Eben  Joyce  come 
out  of  the  woods.  Moved  by  some  impulse  which  I  will 
not  try  to  explain,  she  drew  up  and  waited  for  him. 
Nan  seldom  tried  to  analyze  her  impulses,  but  acted 
on  them.  To  be  sure,  Eben  Joyce  was  Jack's  uncle; 
but  it  is  doubtful  whether  Nan  consciously  remembered 
that  fact. 

Eben  saw  the  horse  and  cart,  and  noted  that  they 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  him.  He  hesitated,  conquered 

318 


OLD  HARBOR 


his  impulse  to  retreat  and  go  home  some  other  way,  and 
advanced  resolutely  towards  Nan.  It  took  a  good  deal 
of  resolution.  When  Nan  asked  him,  in  the  most  com 
monplace  tone  and  as  if  she  had  known  him  all  her  life, 
if  he  would  n't  rather  be  driven  home  than  walk,  he  got 
in  beside  her,  somewhat  dazed.  Here  was  Nancy  Hedge, 
whom  he  had  never  met,  asking  him  to  drive  with  her. 
Obviously,  there  was  but  one  thing  to  do. 

To  his  great  surprise,  Eben  found  himself  talking 
freely.  Nan  did  not  say  much,  but  the  little  that  she  did 
say  was  well  calculated  —  if  it  was  calculated  at  all, 
concerning  which  there  is  a  reasonable  doubt  —  to  keep 
Eben  going.  Presently  Eben  began  to  speak  of  Jack; 
whether  by  his  own  design  or  by  design  of  Nan's,  there 
is  the  same  reasonable  doubt  —  or  larger;  for  Eben, 
in  such  matters,  was  no  fool.  He  may  have  been  mildly 
intoxicated  by  Nan's  nearness.  She  sometimes  pro 
duced  that  effect. 

"My sister  Harriet  said,"  observed  Eben, "that  Jack 
came  near  having  a  serious  illness  the  last  time  he  was 
at  home." 

Nan  sat  up  —  I  do  not  mean  that  literally,  for  Nan 
always  sat  erect  when  she  was  driving;  she  turned  to 
Eben  so  quickly  that  she  startled  both  him  and  the 
horse.  For  a  minute,  she  had  to  devote  her  attention  to 
the  horse. 

"What  did  you  say,  Mr.  Joyce,"  she  asked,  when  she 
had  the  animal  quieted  again,  "about  an  illness  ?" 

"I  said,"  Eben  answered,  "that  Jack  came  near 
319 


OLD   HARBOR 


being  seriously  ill  when  he  was  at  home  last.  Or  so 
Harriet  told  me." 

"  Oh,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  Nan  said.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  of  her  sincerity.  "Tell  me  about  it." 

So  Eben  told  her,  reporting  what  Harriet  had  said  to 
him  that  Mrs.  Catherwood  had  said.  It  is  to  be  borne 
in  mind  that  Jack  was  a  great  favorite  of  Harriet's 
and  that  Mrs.  Catherwood  was  his  mother.  It  is  not 
likely  that  the  tale  lost  appreciably  by  repetition.  Nan 
listened  to  Eben's  story  in  silence. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  simply,  when  he  had  made 
an  end  of  it.  "I  am  very  glad  that  Mrs.  Catherwood 
was  able  to  bring  him  out  of  it  so  well." 

"It  is  very  fortunate,"  Eben  replied. 

"Very  fortunate,"  Nan  echoed.  She  could  not  say 
anything  more.  She  had  forgotten  where  they  were 
going,  and  the  horse  had  passed  MacLean's  twice  — • 
MacLean,  himself,  was  at  his  open  door,  looking  out  — 
before  she  remembered  to  leave  Eben  at  his  gate. 

Nan  was  regretting,  bitterly.  She  was  regretting 
everything :  her  action,  which  now  seemed  to  have  been 
hasty,  her  looks,  her  bringing  up,  her  age.  There  was  no 
need.  Although  she  was  a  year  or  two  older  than  Jack, 
she  was  not  very  old;  and,  certainly,  there  was  no  need 
to  regret  her  looks.  She  did.  She  regretted  everything 
that  made  her  different  from  the  others.  She  wished, 
passionately,  to  be  like  them,  and  to  have  them  like  her. 
In  the  midst  of  her  regrets  she  looked  up  and  there  was 
Constance.  Without  stopping  to  consider  what  Con- 

320 


OLD   HARBOR 


stance  might  think  of  her  action,  she  called  to  her  and 
asked  if  she  would  not  drive  a  little  way  with  her. 
Constance,  somewhat  surprised,  got  in  beside  her. 

"I  am  almost  home,"  said  Constance,  "but  that 
does  n't  matter.  I'll  go  anywhere  you  like." 

Nan  was  grateful.  She  began,  at  once,  to  question 
Constance  about  Jack  and  his  illness.  Constance  an 
swered  with  entire  frankness.  Constance  was  no  fool 
and  she  liked  Nan,  and  she  could  give  a  pretty  good 
guess  at  the  situation;  and,  if  she  could  help  Nan,  she 
was  quite  willing  to  do  so. 

"I'm  going  to  have  a  good  talk  with  Jack,"  she  said, 
when  she  had  finished  her  story,  "the  next  time  he 
comes  home." 

She  did  not  say  what  the  talk  would  be  about,  and 
Nan  did  not  ask. 

"Are  you?"  she  asked.  "Will  you  tell  him  that  I 
am  sorry  he  came  so  near  being  ill  ?  Tell  him  that  I  am 
very  sorry  for  what  happened  to  him.  Will  you?" 

Constance  looked  up  quickly.  "Yes,"  she  said; 
"I'll  tell  him  just  that."  She  seemed  to  think  that  the 
subject  ought  to  be  changed,  at  this  point.  "  Do  you 
know,"  she  continued,  laughing,  "that  our  Nora  came 
to  mother  in  a  great  fright  yesterday.  She  thought  she 
had  seen  a  ghost." 

"  Indeed  ! "  said  Nan.  She  was  not  interested  in  Nora. 

"Yes,"  said  Constance;  "she  thought  it  was  the 
ghost  of  Mike  Loughery  that  she  had  seen  the  night 
before.  She  had  been  up  pretty  nearly  the  whole  ni^ht, 

321 


OLD   HARBOR 


saying  prayers  for  him.     She  must  have   just   about 
worn  out  her  rosary." 

"From  what  I  have  heard  of  Mike  Loughery," 
replied  Nan,  "Nora's  prayers  would  n't  hurt  him. 
Might  it  not  have  been  Mike  himself?" 

"Oh,  no.  Mike  sailed  on  the  'Susan'  last  spring. 
She  can't  get  in  for  nearly  a  month." 

Nan  murmured  some  reply.  It  did  not  matter  what 
she  said.  She  was  still  filled  with  regrets,  and  there  did 
not  seem  to  be  anything  that  she  could  do  to  mend  mat 
ters.  Jack  must  make  the  next  move.  If  he  should  n't, 
after  that  message,  —  if  her  intuition  should  prove  to 
have  been  right,  as  is  apt  to  be  the  case  with  woman's 
intuition,  —  Nan  would  not  think  of  it. 

That  summer  had  not  been  a  happy  time  for  Nan. 
She  had  not  had  many  really  happy  times  in  all  her 
life. 

MacLean  kicked  out  his  leg  as  he  told  his  freshest  bit 
of  gossip  to  the  first  man  who  came  into  his  shop.  That 
man,  unhappily  for  MacLean,  happened  to  be  Doctor 
Olcott. 

"Eh,  mon,"  he  said  gleefully,  "what '11  the  Hedge 
girl  be  doin'  noo,  d'  ye  think  ?  She'll  be  takkin'  oop  wi' 
Eben  Joyce,  puir  mon !  She  drove  — 

"Damn  it,  MacLean!"  the  doctor  broke  out, 
sharply.  "  Damn  it !  Will  you  leave  Nan  Hedge  alone  ? 
Can't  a  girl  do  anything  without  setting  your  damned 
tongue  to  wagging  ?  Hinged  in  the  middle,  MacLean ! 
Damnable  gossip ! " 

322 


OLD   HARBOR 


The  doctor,  still  rumbling  wrathfully,  wheezed  out 
and  slammed  MacLean's  door  behind  him;  slammed 
the  door  behind  him,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  was 
never  shut  at  that  season,  but  stood  open,  with  a  chair 
against  it. 


EBEN  was  lying  stretched  at  length  on  the  pine 
needles,  happier  than  he  had  been  for  many  a  long  day 
—  for  many  a  year,  for  that  matter ;  since  that  time, 
back  in  the  dim  past,  when  he  had  run  away.  Clanky 
Beg  and  Joe  were  stretched  beside  him,  and  they  were 
happy,  too.  It  was  nothing  unusual  for  them,  perhaps. 
All  three  watched  the  patch  of  blue  sky  above  the  little 
clearing,  and  the  white  clouds  drifting  past  it,  and  the 
tops  of  the  pines  that  waved  lazily  in  the  summer  breeze, 
and  they  listened  to  their  soft  whisperings.  None  of  the 
three  said  anything.  They  were  content  to  lie  there  and 
breathe  the  spicy  air  and  watch  the  summer  day  drift 
by.  It  brought  up  old  memories  to  Eben;  memories 
of  Oriental  ports,  perhaps,  and  tropical  seas  and  the 
spicy  smell  of  his  cargo  mingled  with  the  smell  of  pine 
tar  and  bilge-water  —  the  smell  of  a  ship.  Eben  loved 
that  smell. 

Suddenly,  Clanky  sat  up  and  peered  about;  then  he 
got  to  his  feet  and  vanished  noiselessly.  It  made  Eben 
uneasy  and  his  content  was  at  an  end ;  for  Eben  was 
not  used  to  being  happy,  and  at  the  first  suspicion  of 
alarm,  the  feeling  left  him.  It  was  an  elusive  feeling. 

"What  is  it,  Joe?"  he  asked. 

Joe  laughed,  care-free.  His  conscience  did  not 
324 


OLD   HARBOR 


trouble  him.  "Oh,"  he  said,  "nothing,  I  guess. 
Probably  Clanky  thinks  somebody  has  come  into  the 
woods.  There  's  no  reason  why  they  should  n't.  The 
woods  are  n't  ours." 

Eben  lay  back  again ;  but  he  was  uneasy,  and  not  at 
peace.  Because  he  was  uneasy,  he  could  not  lie  quiet 
there,  as  he  had  been  doing  for  more  than  an  hour,  but 
in  five  minutes  he  sat  up  again.  Opposite  him,  on  the 
log  which  had  been  Clanky 's  favorite  seat  all  winter, 
sat  a  stranger.  He  was  a  slightly  undersized  man,  but 
inclined  to  a  beery  corpulence,  which  was  kept  in 
check  by  underfeeding.  His  eyes  were  puffy,  and  on 
his  flabby  cheeks  was  a  stubble  of  beard ;  and  his  face 
wore  an  expression  of  a  sort  of  specious  geniality. 

At  the  sight  of  Eben  a  smile  that  was,  no  doubt, 
meant  to  be  jovial  overspread  this  gentleman's  fine  fea 
tures  ;  a  smile  that  was  most  thoroughly  belied  by  the 
expression  of  his  eyes.  In  them  was  a  look  like  that 
of  a  bird  of  prey  —  or  a  wolf. 

He  slapped  his  leg.  "Why,  damn  me!"  he  cried, 
with  a  laugh  intended  to  be  round  and  jolly.  "Damn 
me,  if  it  ain't  Jacob  Bronson!  Why,  Jacob,"  he  said, 
rising  and  advancing  toward  Eben  with  a  slightly 
rolling  gait,  "who  'd  'a'  thought  to  find  you  here, 
snoozin'  away  in  this  quiet  spot  ?  Looks  like  you  ain't 
got  a  thing  on  your  conscience.  Why,  Jacob  — " 

For  Eben  had  given  a  low  cry  of  terror,  had  leaped 
to  his  feet  and  fled.  The  stranger,  with  an  excited 
chuckle  of  delight,  put  out  after  him.  He  could  not 

325 


OLD   HARBOR 


hope  to  overtake  Eben,  for  Eben  was  not  corpulent,  nor 
was  he  underfed  now,  and  fear  winged  his  heels ;  but 
at  least,  he  could  have  the  joy  of  the  chase. 

All  this  had  passed  too  quickly  for  Joe  to  have  a 
hand  or  a  foot  in  it.  He  could  only  sit  up,  when  it  was 
too  late,  and  watch  the  stranger  until  he  disappeared, 
which  he  did  with  a  rapidity  that  was  astonishing,  and 
listen  to  the  sounds  of  the  chase.  "  Oh,  Jacob !  Oh,  Mr. 
Bronson ! "  the  stranger  was  calling  continually,  his  calls 
being  as  continually  interrupted  by  his  laughter.  These 
sounds  were  becoming  momentarily  more  distant. 

Joe  wondered  ;  then  he  saw  Clanky  Beg  slipping 
through  the  wood  with  what  speed  he  was  capable  of. 
Poor  Clanky!  He  did  not  run  well,  because  his  legs 
were  wobbly.  He  knew  it  well,  and  it  was  a  source  of 
unending  grief  to  him. 

"Go  it,  Clanky!"  called  Joe,  softly.  "Go  it!  I'm 
sorry  for  that  man  if  you  get  your  hands  on  him." 

Clanky  did  go  it.  It  did  no  good,  for  the  more  he 
ran,  the  farther  he  was  behind.  Clanky  himself  perceiv 
ing  that  fact  before  he  got  to  the  edge  of  the  wood,  his 
grief  was  so  heavy  that  he  leaned  against  a  tree  and 
wept.  As  he  was  weeping  his  heart  out,  there  was  the 
sound  of  mocking  laughter;  and  Clanky  looked  up, 
surprised,  and  there  stood  Mike  Loughery,  only  a  few 
steps  away. 

Clanky 's  surprise  did  not  prevent  him  from  acting 
quickly.  He  threw  himself  upon  Mike  in  a  fury,  before 
Mike  could  stir  a  foot. 

326 


OLD   HARBOR 


"Now  Clanky's  got  you,"  he  said,  calmly  enough, 
as  his  strong  arms  wound  about  the  struggling  Mike. 
"  Clanky  's  going  to  kill  you,  Mike.  Mike's  a  thief  and 
a  liar,  and  he's  going  to  die." 

Mike  began  to  believe  that  Clanky  spoke  the  truth ; 
but  he  made  a  mighty  struggle. 

Now  it  happened  that  William  Ransome  had  been 
out  beyond  the  pines,  to  a  point  from  which  he  could 
get  an  unobstructed  view  of  the  sea.  He  had  been  sit 
ting  with  his  back  against  a  great  rock,  for  a  long  time, 
engaged  in  introspection  and  in  looking  out  over  the 
wide  waters.  He  was  tired  of  being  unable  to  write,  tired 
of  having  something  the  matter  with  him  and  not  know 
ing  what  it  was,  and  he  had  set  himself  the  task,  delib 
erately,  of  searching  his  soul  to  find  out,  if  possible, 
what  was  wrong. 

He  had  selected  the  spot  instinctively  and  uncon 
sciously,  but  his  judgment  had  been  sound.  At  least, 
I  think  so.  There  is  nothing  that  so  helps  a  man  to  a 
true  searching  of  the  soul  as  an  unobstructed  view  over 
wide  waters.  I  cannot  imagine  a  man's  dealing  with 
anything  but  truth  in  the  presence  of  the  sea.  All  the 
littlenesses  of  life  fall  away  before  it.  The  only  trouble 
with  it,  for  a  purpose  such  as  William's,  —  if  it  is  a 
trouble, —  is  that  it  soon  becomes  an  effort  to  keep  your 
soul  consciously  before  you  for  examination.  Your 
soul  becomes  a  hidden  witness,  none  the  less  revealed 
to  you  for  that,  and  you  are  lost  in  contemplation  before 
you  know  it.  Then  the  truth  dawns  on  you,  not  sud- 

327 


OLD   HARBOR 


denly,  but  like  the  rising  of  the  sun,  and  becomes  as 
clear  as  day.  You  know  it  for  truth,  and  wonder  that 
you  could  have  failed  to  see  anything  so  palpable.  You 
even  laugh  at  yourself  for  a  fool. 

So  William,  after  much  gazing  over  the  wide  waters, 
and  much  pleasant  musing,  his  conscious  searching 
having  been  long  abandoned,  laughed,  on  a  sudden, 
aloud. 

"Well,  William,"  he  said,  "you  are  —  you  certainly 
are  a  fool.  I'll  go  and  tell  her  now." 

He  did  not  mention  who  the  "her"  was;  but  he 
knew  and,  I  suppose,  we  have  known  for  a  long  time. 
Perhaps  we  have  been  inclined,  more  than  once,  to  call 
him  a  fool  for  not  knowing.  He  sprang  up,  like  a  boy, 
and  strode  off,  still  laughing. 

He  was  walking  over  the  fields  of  wiry  grass,  and  he 
had  just  come  to  the  fringe  of  young  growth  near  Mrs. 
Loughery's,  when  he  saw  a  man  dart  from  the  woods 
like  a  frightened  deer.  Within  the  woods  were  sounds 
of  gasping  and  broken  chuckling  and  an  occasional 
exclamation.  He  thought  he  knew  the  runner. 

"  Eben ! "  he  called.    "  Oh,  Eben ! " 

Eben  did  not  turn  his  head,  but  only  ran  the  faster. 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  him?"  said  William, 
impatiently. 

As  he  spoke,  a  second  man  came  from  the  woods. 
This  man  was  a  little  undersized  and  inclined  to  cor 
pulence;  and  he  was  almost  breathless  with  the  unac 
customed  exercise  of  his  running  and  weak  with  mirth. 

328 


OLD  HARBOR 


"Ah,  damn  me!"  cried  this  gentleman  to  himself  — 
he  had  not  yet  perceived  William.  "  Oh,  Jacob !  Mr. 
Bronson  —  I  say  —  don't  ye  be  in  a  hurry,  now,"  he 
called,  as  well  as  he  could  for  laughing.  "Damn  you, 
Jake  Bronson,"  he  added,  muttering,  "  I  got  you,  now, 
I  have."  There  was  quite  a  different  expression  in  his 
face  as  he  finished  his  muttering.  "  I  don't  care  whether 
you  gets  away  at  the  present  go  off  or  not.  I'm  out 
o'  this  race." 

He  sat  down  on  the  grass,  and  alternately  laughed 
and  chuckled  and  pressed  his  hand  over  his  heart.  "  It's 
a  powerful  strong  stitch,"  he  said ;  and  he  swore  a  string 
of  oaths  at  the  stitch  in  his  side. 

William  had  come  up  and  stood  close  behind  him. 
"Well,  my  friend,"  he  said,  "you  seem  very  merry  and 
to  have  lost  your  wind." 

The  man  looked  up,  surprised.  "Hello,  bo!"  he 
said.  "You  come  along  mighty  quiet.  Might  startle 
me  so  't  I  'd  have  heart  disease.  Nothin'  but  a  damned 
stitch,  though.  Takes  me  sudden,  sometimes,  'specially 
when  I  run.  That's  why  I  don't  run  none  to  speak  of. 
But  merry's  the  word.  You'd  be  merry  'f  you'd  'a' 
seen  him  start." 

"  Why  were  you  chasing  Mr.  J  —  that  man  ?  " 

"  Well,  'tween  you  an'  me,  't  was  'cause  I  wanted  to 
catch  'im."  A  cunning  leer  went  with  this  reply. 

"Why,"  continued  William,  imperturbably,  "did 
you  wish  to  catch  him?" 

"Well,  bo,  is  it  any  business  o'  yours?" 
329 


OLD   HARBOR 


"Yes,"  said  William. 

"How?" 

"  I  am  a  friend  of  his." 

"Oh,"  said  the  stranger.  "Well,  I'm  a  friend  o'  his, 
too.  So,  there  you  are." 

"What  is  your  name?"  asked  William. 

"Well,  ol'  pal,"-  — the  manner  was  becoming  less  jo 
vial,  —  "  that 's  no  business  o'  yours.  They  ain't  no  doubt 
about  that.  But  I  '11  tell  you.  My  name 's  James 
Gunn,  Esquire,  at  your  service.  What's  yours?" 

William  laughed.  "Mr.  James  Gunn,  Esquire,  my 
name  is  Ransome." 

"On  the  Grampus  hills  me  father  fed  his  flocks," 
continued  James  Gunn,  Esquire.  "A  humbil  swine. 
Kind  o'  low  down  in  him,  callin'  his  father  a  swine, 
wa'n't  it  ?  Say,  I  'd  forgot  I  knew  that.  I  learned  it  once 
when  I  was  a  kid  at  school.  That's  a  longtime  ago." 

"I  can  readily  believe  that,"  William  remarked. 

"These  the  Grampus  hills?"  asked  Mr.  Gunn,  with 
a  wave  of  his  hand. 

"They  may  do  duty  as  the  hills  in  question,"  an 
swered  William,  laughing  again. 

"Leavin'  the  hills  alone,"  said  Mr.  Gunn,  "I  ain't 
never  done  nothin'  to  you,  have  I?" 

"Nothing,"  said  William. 

"Well,  then,"  returned  Mr.  Gunn,  triumphantly, 
"what  you  down  on  me  for?" 

"What  were  you  chasing  my  friend  for?" 

"Jake  Bronson  ?"  asked  Mr.  Gunn,  a  wave  of  illu- 
330 


OLD  HARBOR 


mination  breaking  over  his  face.  "  So  that 's  it.  Jacob 
Bronson  an'  I  was  shipmates  together." 

"Indeed!"  William  sat  down  on  a  stone.  There 
might  be  information  to  be  gathered  here. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  continued  Mr.  Gunn.  "Maybe 
you  've  been  shipmates  with  'im." 

"No,"  said  William.   "I  have  never  been  to  sea." 

"Indeed!"  returned  Mr.  Gunn,  with  a  very  good 
imitation  of  William's  manner.  "  Well,  sir,  all  I  can 
say  is  that  you  have  missed  a  great  pleasure." 

William  laughed  again.  Mr.  Gunn  seemed  an  amus 
ing  rascal.  "  I  believe  it,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  sir,"  Mr.  Gunn  went  on,  "you  have  missed 
an  experience,  sir,  that  is  well  worth  having.  If  you 
want  to  be  in  hell,  clear  down  to  the  bottomless  bottom 
of  hell,  just  you  ship  as  a  common  sailor  in  a  ship  that 
sails  with  Jacob  Bronson  as  mate,  and  on  a  long  voy 
age  where  you  don't  touch  anywhere  for  three  or  four 
months  —  not  long  enough  to  get  out  of  it." 

"So?"  asked  William.  This  was  a  new  phase  of 
Eben's  character,  supposing  it  to  be  true,  which  it  prob 
ably  was  not. 

"  So,"  said  Mr.  Gunn.  "  I  just  happened  to  be  passin' 
through  this  piece  o'  woods  when  who  should  I  see 
but  that  self-same  Jake  Bronson,  snoozin' under  a  tree, 
as  quiet  an'  peaceable  as  if  he  had  n't  got  nothin'  on 
his  conscience.  Wantin'  to  shake  ban's  with  an'  ol'  pal 
like  him,  jus'  natu'lly,  I  spoke  to  him.  He  looks  up  an' 
sees  who  it  is,  an'  jus'  flies."  Mr.  Gunn  was  overcome 

331 


OLD  HARBOR 


with  mirth,  at  this  point.  "Yes,  sir,  he  jus'  flies  fer 
home.  That  did  n't  make  no  difference  in  me  feelin's 
towards  him,  an'  I,  still  wantin'  to  take  's  han'  in  mine, 
I  puts  out  after  'im.  But  he  beat  me  out."  Mr.  Gunn 
gave  way  to  his  mirth,  and  chuckled  until  he  had  to  roll 
on  the  ground. 

William  made  no  reply  of  any  kind.  Mr.  Gunn, 
having  had  his  roll,  first  sat  up,  then  got  somewhat 
laboriously  to  his  feet. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  resumed  indignantly,  "there  he  was, 
snoozin'  as  peaceable  as  if  he  did  n't  have  nothin'  on 
his  conscience.  An'  he  has.  Has  n't  he  ?  I  asks  you, 
has  he  or  has  n't  he?" 

William  was  obliged,  in  the  interests  of  truth,  to  con 
fess  to  himself  that  Eben  did  seem  to  have  something 
on  his  conscience.  But  he  did  not  confess  it  to  Mr. 
James  Gunn. 

"I  asks  you,"  Mr.  Gunn  went  on,  "an'  you  don't 
answer.  Now,  what  would  you  say  if  I  sh'd  tell  you  't 
Jake  Bronson  did  a  murder  at  sea,  on  a  voyage  the  like 
o'  the  one  I  spoke  of  —  near  four  months  at  sea,  we  were 
—  a  murder  of  a  sailor  what  was  givin'  no  offense?" 

William  smiled.  Mr.  Gunn  had  ceased  to  be  amusing, 
"  I  should  say,"  he  replied,  "  that  it  was  probably  a  lie." 

Mr.  James  Gunn  seemed  to  be  much  excited.  "A 
lie,  damn  you!  Me  lie?" 

William  rose  from  his  rock.  Mr.  Gunn  was  appar 
ently  meditating  an  attack.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  still  smil 
ing,  "undoubtedly  a  lie." 

332 


OLD  HARBOR 


At  the  word,  Gunn  launched  himself  at  William  and 
aimed  a  blow  at  his  face.  William  parried,  without 
difficulty,  and  promptly  returned  a  right  arm  swing 
which  took  Gunn  behind  the  jaw,  lifted  him  off  his  feet, 
and  sent  him  sprawling.  He  lay  quiet  for  a  minute  and 
William  watched  him;  watched  him  while  he  sat  up, 
dazed  and  dizzy,  and  looked  about  him.  Then  he  saw 
William. 

"  Now,  Gunn,"  said  William,  "  if  you  want  to  follow 
up  the  matter  you  were  speaking  of,  you  can  arrange 
to  be  at  Colonel  Catherwood's  office  to-morrow  morn 
ing.  Anybody  will  direct  you  to  it.  I  will  agree  to  pro 
duce  the  man  you  call  Jacob  Bronson,  and  you  can 
make  any  charges  you  have  to  make." 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Gunn,  humbly.  "What  did  ye 
say  was  the  gentleman's  name,  sir?" 

"Catherwood;  Colonel  Catherwood." 

"Catherwood  —  Catherwood."  Gunn  was  still  half 
dazed,  which  was  not  to  be  wondered  at.  "Seems  to 
me,  sir,  our  owners  had  some  such  name.  Maybe  he 
owns  the  'Susan.'  Do  ye  know,  sir?" 

"Yes,  he  owns  the  ship  'Susan.'" 

"  'T  is  the  same  ship.  If  I  c'd  collect  me  wits,  which 
you  knocked  out  of  me,  —  or  into  me,  —  I  sh'd  say  't 
me  podner  told  me  that.  An'  where  is  me  podner  ?  — 
Me  podner  that  promised  to  be  wi'  me  in  a  jiff  ?  Where 
in  —  in  —  these  Grampus  hills  ?  If  ye  know,  Mr. 
Norville,  it  '11  be  a  favor  to  tell  me.  He  'd  help  me. 
Maybe  he  'd  direct  me  to  the  colonel's  place.  He 

333 


OLD  HARBOR 


lives  hereabouts,  som'eres.  Me  podner,  I  mean,  not 
the  colonel." 

William  was  laughing  again.  "I  don't  know  your 
partner." 

"Course  you  don't,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Gunn.  "How 
thoughtless  of  me !  You  don't  know  a  devil  like  Mike 
Loughery  — 

"Mike  Loughery!"  William  exclaimed.  "Is  he 
here?  How  did  he  get  here?  Where  did  you  meet 
him?" 

"  I  '11  answer  your  questions  in  order,  Mr.  Neville,'* 
Mr.  Gunn  replied.  He  was  sitting  up,  now,  gesticu 
lating.  "He  is  here,  or  he  was  a  half  hour  ago.  He  — 
we  —  got  here  by  fast  freight,  which  is  none  too  fast,  it 
takin'  us  a  good  three  months,  makin'  use  of  the  hos 
pitality  of  the  hostelry  kep'  up  at  the  public  expense. 
An  excellen'  good  hostelry,  Mr.  Neval,  an'  I'd  recom 
mend  it  freely.  I  met  Mike  in  front  of  a  bar  in  Second 
Avenue.  He'd  just  lef  the  'Susan,'  secretly  an'  by 
night,  as  ye  may  say,  not  carin'  much  fer  goin'  to  South 
Ameriky.  He  ain't  no  sailor,  Mike  ain't.  Now,  / 
am.  By  the  by,  Mr.  Naval,  is  the  colonel  ye  spoke  of 
a  magistrate?" 

"No,"  said  William,  "he  is  n't.  But  he  is  a  man  of 
considerable  influence  in  this  town.  Any  man  that  he 
considers  an  undesirable  citizen  is  apt  to  have  to  go 
in  one  way  or  another." 

" Oh !"  Mr.  Gunn  looked  thoughtful.  "As  much  as 
to  say  —  but  we  won't  say  it,  as  'tween  frien's.  Grand 

334 


OLD  HARBOR 


panjandrom,  is  he  ?  Fast  freight  an'  the  public  hostelry 
to  be  preferred,  eh?  Now,  Mr.  Nuvalle,  I'll  be  goin* 
to  look  up  me  podner,  if  ye '11  help  me  a  bit.  Ye  made 
me  dizzy  wi'  joy,  ye  did." 

William  did  not  move.  Mr.  Gunn  looked  indignant. 

"  Will  ye  help  me  up  or  will  ye  not  ?  I  asks  you.  Will 
ye  leave  a  poor  victim  grovelin'  on  the  groun'  ?  Never 
fear,  sir." 

"  I  have  no  fear,"  said  William,  smiling. 

"  Nor  y*  have  n't  any  need  to,"  Gunn  muttered.  "  I 
know." 

"Give  me  your  knife,"  William  returned,  "and  I'll 
help  you." 

Gunn  looked  the  very  picture  of  injured  innocence. 
"Me  knife?  What  knife?" 

"The  sheath  knife  that  is  in  your  belt  just  by  your 
hip." 

"  Why,  coitainly.  I  clean  forgot  that  knife,  sir.  Sail 
ors  allus  carries  one,  sir." 

William  made  no  reply,  but  took  the  knife,  sheath 
and  all,  which  Gunn  held  out  to  him. 

"Now,  sir,"  said  Gunn,  "if  you'll  lend  a  hand  — 
Thank  ye,  sir." 

They  set  off  together  into  the  woods.  "  Ye 're  a  sharp 
un,  Mr.  Naville,  you  are,"  said  Gunn,  after  he  had 
taken  a  few  unsteady  steps.  "  Ye  handle  y'r  fists  pretty, 
too.  Do  ye  do  that  often,  jus'  for  amusement,  so  to 
speak?" 

"  No,"  William  answered.  "  Not  now.  I  used  to  spar 
335 


OLD  HARBOR 


pretty  well,  I  think.    But  I'm  long  out  of  practice  — 
twelve  or  fifteen  years." 

"Oh,"  said  Gunn,  a  note  of  respect  in  his  voice. 
"Then  I'm  glad  I  did  n't  run  agin  ye  when  ye  were 
in  practice.  I'd  be  a  corp'  at  this  minute.  Say,  ye 
would  n't  teach  me  that  punch  ye  handed  me  ?  Do, 
now,  sir,  Mr.  Norvulle.  It  'd  be  a  handy  one  f  'r  a  sailor 
man  to  know." 

"No,"  said  William. 

Mr.  Gunn  sighed  deeply.  "I  thought  as  much,"  he 
replied;  "I  thought  as  much.  They're  all  down  on 
us  lads." 

They  were  well  into  the  pines  by  this  time,  and  faint 
sounds  came  to  them  from  near  at  hand.  Mr.  Gunn 
pricked  up  his  ears. 

"They 's  murder  bein'  done,"  he  cried.  " I  know  the 
sound  of  it.  Come  on,  quick." 

He  broke  away  from  William  and  ran,  unsteadily. 
William  followed,  and  overtook  him  just  as  he  threw 
himself  upon  two  figures  on  the  ground.  The  figure 
that  was  uppermost  was  that  of  Clanky  Beg.  William 
knew  the  misshapen  legs.  The  under  man  was  about 
gone.  His  legs  twitched  spasmodically. 

"  Clanky ! "  William  cried.  "  Clanky !  Let  that  man 
up."- 

Clanky  threw  off  the  groggy  Gunn,  and  rose. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  said,  beginning  to  weep  again.  "  Mike 's 
a  thief  and  a  liar,  and  I  was  killing  him.  It  was  'most 
done.  He  ought  to  die." 

336 


OLD  HARBOR 


Gunn  sat  where  Clanky  had  thrown  him.  "Well, 
blast  me  /"  he  said,  in  astonishment.  "  He's  a  rum  un. 
Do  ye  have  many  o'  them  aroun'  here,  Mr.  Narvalle  ?" 

"There's  only  one  Clanky  Beg,"  said  William,  smil 
ing  involuntarily.  Mike  was  beginning  to  gasp.  He 
raised  his  hand  to  feel  his  throat. 

"Well,  that's  lucky,"  Gunn  returned.  "Say,  young 
feller,  if  ye  go  to  murderin'  all  the  liars,  ye '11  have  y'r 
han's  full.  It'll  keep  ye  busy." 

"Clanky,"  said  William,  solemnly,  "you  mustn't 
do  that.  You  must  never  do  that.  Never  try  to  kill 
anybody.  Promise  me  that  you  will  not.  Will  you  pro 
mise  that,  Clanky?" 

"Must  n't  Clanky  kill  Mike?  "he  asked.  "Mike  is 
a  thief  and  a  liar." 

"  You  must  never  try  to  kill  him  or  anybody.  Promise 
me  that  you  will  not." 

Clanky  Beg  gave  a  sigh  of  regret.  "Well,  I  won't, 
then.  But  Clanky 's  sorry  you  came." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  William;  "but  I'm  very  glad. 
It  was  very  lucky,  Clanky,  —  Hello!" 

For  Mike  had  taken  advantage  of  the  talk  with 
Clanky  Beg  and  had  crawled  to  Gunn;  and  they  had 
both  got  upon  their  feet  and  were  making  off  unstead 
ily.  Clanky  would  have  started  after ;  but  William  laid 
a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"No,"  he  said;  "let  them  go." 

Gunn  turned  and  waved  his  hand.  "Don't  ye  wait 
f'r  me,  bo,  if  I  ain't  there,"  he  called. 

337 


OLD  HARBOR 


William  watched  them  out  of  sight,  and  then  he  let 
Clanky  go.  He  did  not  see  Abbie  that  afternoon,  and 
he  did  not  much  care.  The  news  had  kept  so  long  — 
there  was  no  hurry  —  it  would  keep  a  day  or  two  longer. 
He  was  content. 

Eben  did  not  stop  running  until  he  was  safe  within 
his  own  door.  Panting  and  breathless  and  stricken  with 
fear,  he  threw  himself  down  upon  the  settle  in  the  hall. 
Harriet  heard  him  and  came  out  to  him. 

"What  in  the  world's  the  matter  with  you,  Eben?" 
she  asked,  wondering. 

"I've  killed  a  man,  Harriet,"  whispered  Eben. 

"Mercy  on  us!"  cried  Harriet,  laughing  lightly;  she 
did  not  take  Eben  seriously.  "How  exciting!  There 
are  several  men  I  would  like  to  murder.  When  was  it, 
Eben,  just  now?" 

"Don't,  Harriet,"  said  Eben,  shuddering.  "Don't 
joke.  I  —  I  shot  him,  and  then  I  broke  his  head  with  a 
belaying-pin  —  an  iron  pin.  It  was  four  years  ago." 

He  got  up,  and  with  his  head  sunken  upon  his  breast, 
he  went  slowly  up  the  stairs  and  locked  himself  into  his 
room.  He  would  not  meet  Harriet's  eyes ;  he  knew  how 
they  would  be  filled  with  horror  and  pity,  and  with  hate 
of  his  deed.  It  was  a  pity  that  he  did  not  meet  her  eyes. 
She  knew  that  he  spoke  the  truth,  and  her  heart  was 
filled  full  of  sorrow  for  Eben  and  sympathy,  and  her 
eyes  showed  nothing  else. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THERE  was  an  unusual  amount  of  little  sicknesses 
about,  for  the  season  —  colds  and  such  ailments.  The 
doctor  had  just  come  from  a  visit  to  Miss  Hitty ;  a  call 
which  was,  ostensibly,  social  and  non-professional. 
He  often  dropped  in  there  and  dragged  himself,  wheez 
ing,  up  two  flights  of  stairs  to  satisfy  himself  of  her 
bodily  condition,  if  he  could  be  said  to  satisfy  himself 
when  he  was  as  dissatisfied  as  possible. 

He  went  in  to  find  his  wife,  —  she  was  waiting  for 
him,  just  inside  the  door,  —  and,  incidentally,  to  get 
ready  for  supper.  It  was  not  a  desolate  supper,  but  a 
very  merry  one;  one  that  the  doctor  was  in  no  hurry 
to  get  through.  Although,  at  this  season,  it  was  eaten 
by  daylight  and  not  by  lamplight,  the  period  of  un 
shaded  lamps  was  over.  Not  a  single  unshaded  lamp 
was  tolerated  in  the  house.  Even  the  housekeeper  and 
cook,  who  had  resolutely  declined  to  leave  Doctor 
Olcott  under  any  circumstances,  unless  removed  by 
force,  was  resigned  to  the  change.  In  evidence  whereof, 
she  had  a  shade  for  the  lamp  in  her  own  room ;  a  won 
derful  shade,  delicately  tinted  a  shell-pink  above  and  a 
beautiful  pea-green  below,  and  tastefully  adorned  with 
birds  and  flowers  such  as  never  were  on  land  or  sea. 
At  least,  she  was  overheard  by  Sophy  murmuring  some- 

339 


OLD  HARBOR 


thing  about  the  light  that  never  was  on  land  or  sea,  and 
if  she  did  not  refer  to  her  lamp-shade,  what  in  the  world 
did  she  refer  to  ? 

The  doctor  had  not  quite  got  through  with  his  jour 
nals,  that  evening,  when  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door. 
He  looked  up,  surprised,  and  then  glanced  at  the  clock. 
It  was  not  time  for  the  housekeeper  and  cook  to  appear 
with  the  beer;  it  lacked  five  minutes  of  beer-time. 
Never,  in  all  his  experience,  had  the  doctor  known  her 
to  be  so  far  off  as  five  minutes.  Perhaps  the  clock  was 
wrong.  He  compared  it  with  his  watch,  which  he  could 
depend  upon.  No,  the  clock  was  just  right.  The  knock 
was  repeated,  more  timidly  this  time.  That  was  never 
his  housekeeper  and  cook. 

"Come!"  called  the  doctor;  and  he  swung  half 
around  in  his  chair,  taking  down  one  foot  in  order 
to  execute  that  manoeuvre  the  better.  His  "Come" 
sounded  like  a  clap  of  thunder. 

The  door  opened  slowly  and  Eben  came  in. 

"Why,  hello,  Eben,"  the  doctor  cried,  taking  down 
the  other  leg  and  getting  to  his  feet  as  fast  as  he  could. 
"  It 's  kind  of  you  to  come  around  to  see  an  old  man. 
Here,  sit  down." 

He  tumbled  the  books  off  an  old  easy-chair.  The 
books  made  a  tremendous  noise  as  they  fell  to  the  floor ; 
such  a  noise  that  Eben  could  not  help  the  start  he  gave, 
although  he  had  been  expecting  the  noise.  The  doctor 
drew  the  chair  up  opposite  his  own. 

"  There ! "  he  said.  "  Now,  sit  down.  The  old  chair 's 
340 


OLD  HARBOR 


comfortable,  if  it  is  n't  very  handsome.  Hope  you  don't 
mind  smoke."  The  doctor  smiled  and  looked  around 
at  the  dim  and  smoke-filled  corners  of  the  room,  and  at 
the  slowly  waving  green  wreaths  that  still  hung  above 
his  own  chair. 

"  But  perhaps  you  '11  have  a  pipe  ?  I  've  got  one  — 
another  one  —  right  here." 

"Thank  you,  not  now.  I  came  to  tell  you  my  story, 
if  you'll  listen  to  it." 

"  Listen  to  it !  I  've  been  dying  to  hear  it,  any  time, 
these  eight  months  and  more.  Drive  ahead  —  wait  a 
minute.  Here  's  my  housekeeper." 

There  was  another  knock  at  the  door,  —  not  a  timid 
knock  this  time,  —  and  the  door  opened  and  the  house 
keeper  appeared.  She  had  in  her  hands  two  bottles  of 
beer  and  two  glasses,  and  on  her  face  a  grim  smile. 
The  smile  was  new,  since  the  doctor's  marriage,  and 
she  had  not  got  wholly  used  to  it,  yet ;  but  it  was  there, 
and  she  was  beginning  to  get  used  to  it. 

"Here's  your  beer,  doctor,"  she  said.  "I  thought, 
maybe,  Mr.  Eben'd  like  some,  too.  So  I  brought  two 
bottles." 

"  Why,  that  was  thoughtful,"  replied  the  doctor,  sur 
prised  ;  not  so  much  surprised  as  he  would  have  been 
some  months  before.  "That  was  kind  of  you.  Pretty 
smoky  in  here,  is  n't  it?" 

"None  to  hurt,"  was  the  curt  answer.  "I  guess 
't  won't  hurt  none.  Good-night,  doctor." 

"  Good-night,"  said  the  doctor,  "  and  thank  you." 
341 


OLD  HARBOR 


"No  call  to  thank  me,"  said  the  housekeeper; 
and  she  went  out  and  shut  the  door  softly  behind 
her. 

Eben  opened  his  beer  in  a  manner  that  showed  that 
his  hand  was  used  to  the  operation.  And  the  doctor 
filled  his  pipe  afresh  and  lighted  it,  and  then  he  opened 
his  bottle.  But  he  said  nothing. 

"Doctor,"  began  Eben,  at  last,  "you  remember  the 
night  when  I  ran  away?" 

(<  "  I  remember  the  next  day  well,"  replied  the  doctor. 
"  Your  father  came  to  see  me,  and  he  was  very  much 
distressed." 

"He  might  have  been.  I  have  been  sorry  for  him, 
but  I  should  do  the  same  thing,  if  I  had  it  to  do  over 
again,"  Eben  said.  His  lips  were  compressed  —  a  trick 
of  Harriet's. 

"Yes,  damn  it,  an  unfortunate  business,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  Most  unwise,  Eben,  although  he  thought  he 
was  acting  for  the  best.  But  let  that  pass.  It  can't  be 
helped." 

Eben  was  silent  a  little  while,  musing ;  then  he  roused 
himself.  "I'll  begin  with  that  night,"  he  said.  "My 
adventures  may  be  said  to  have  begun  then." 

"  I  knew  you  fairly  well,  Eben,"  remarked  the  doctor, 
smiling,  "up  to  that  night.  At  least,  I  thought  I  did. 
Then  I  began  to  wonder  whether  I  had  known  you  at 
all.  But  go  ahead." 

Eben  thoughtfully  sipped  his  beer.  "I  had  no 
money,"  he  said  at  last.  "  I  never  had  much,  but  after 

342 


OLD  HARBOR 


that  —  that  thrashing,  I  felt  that  I  would  rather  take 
my  chances  of  starving  than  take  any  of  my  father's 
money,  although  he  had  given  me  some  only  a  few  days 
before.  I  left  it  on  my  bureau,  I  remember.  The 
thrashing  was  for  some  little  peccadillo  such  as  boys 
are  continually  committing.  Five  minutes'  kind  talk 
would  have  done  the  business.  But  father  did  n't  be 
lieve  in  that  method  of  bringing  up  boys." 

Eben  fell  silent  again.  The  doctor  said  nothing,  and 
after  some  minutes  Eben  resumed. 

"  It  does  n't  do  much  good  for  me  to  get  to  thinking," 
he  said,  smiling  gravely,  "and  I  will  go  on  with  my 
story.  I  concealed  myself  on  the  night  freight.  Before 
getting  far,  I  was  found  by  the  crew,  and,  the  next  morn 
ing,  taken  to  the  man  they  called  the  yard  boss.  I  made 
up  a  story,  which  consisted  of  parts  of  the  truth,  and 
asked  the  yard  boss  for  a  job.  I  don't  know  whether 
he  believed  the  story  and  was  sorry  for  me  or  not,  but 
he  gave  me  a  job  which  soon  developed  into  that  of 
freight  brakeman.  My  name,  for  fifteen  years,  was 
Jacob  Bronson.  Why,  for  some  months,  I  went  through 
here  every  other  night.  I  was  glad  enough  that  it  was 
in  the  night.  Once  or  twice  a  week,  I  coupled  in  a  car 
here.  It  was  a  wonder  that  I  did  n't  get  smashed  in 
doing  it,  for  I  was  very  nervous ;  but  the  smash  was  to 
come. 

"You  may  wonder  why  I  was  not  found;  I  won 
dered.  It  would  have  been  easy  to  find  me.  At  last, 
I  got  so  nervous  with  thinking  about  it,  that  I  man- 

343 


OLD  HARBOR 


aged  to  get  transferred  to  another  run,  and,  within 
two  years,  I  was  running  into  the  Mott  Haven  yards, 
still  a  freight  brakeman.  I  was  a  pretty  good  brake- 
man,  though.  Then  I  came  upon  a  gang  of  freight 
thieves." 

Eben  raised  his  hand  to  hide  his  face.  "  Then  I  fell 
down.  They  persuaded  me,  —  no  doubt  they  found  me 
easy,  —  and  I  let  them  get  away  with  some  of  their  plun 
der.  I  got  my  share,  of  course.  But  that  was  a  lesson 
to  me.  It  got  to  be  a  regular  thing  for  something  to  be 
stolen  from  my  train.  It  was  too  regular  and  I  remon 
strated  ;  and  they  laughed  and  said  they  could  n't  let 
a  good  thing  go  quite  so  soon.  Since  that  time,  I  have 
been  strictly  honest ;  a  noble  trait  that,  that  is  enforced 
by  experience,  is  n't  it,  doctor  ?  Honesty  is  a  policy 
which  may  or  may  not  prove  to  be  the  best.  That  is 
beautiful  teaching." 

Eben  laughed  shortly.  The  doctor  rumbled  in  his 
throat;  he  seemed  enraged  at  something. 

"Well,"  said  Eben,  taking  up  his  story  again,  "I 
was  coupling  cars  in  the  big  yard,  and  I  was  nervous, 
for  I  did  n't  know  how  soon  I  would  be  found  out; 
I  knew  they  must  have  their  eyes  on  me,  and  I  got 
caught  between  two  cars  and  was  smashed  up.  Not 
very  badly,  —  several  ribs  broken,  —  but  it  sent  me  to 
the  hospital  for  six  months.  No  doubt  it  saved  me  from 
jail,  too ;  but  I  lost  my  job,  and  did  n't  dare  make  a  fuss 
about  it.  It  would  n't  have  done  any  good,  anyway. 
I  used  up  all  my  money  there,  in  the  hospital.  Why, 

344 


OLD  HARBOR 


when  I  walked  out  of  that  hospital,  I  had  just  one  dol 
lar  in  my  pocket,  and  that  was  given  to  me  by  one  of 
the  internes.  I  was  n't  well  enough  to  be  sent  out, 
considering  the  weather.  The  streets  were  a  mass  of 
slush,  and  it  came  on  a  cold  rain  the  second  day. 

"  I  had  spent  every  cent  by  that  time,  and  I  had  been 
looking  for  work  all  the  time.  But  I  was  n't  able  to 
work,  and,  no  doubt,  I  showed  it.  I  could  n't  find  any 
work.  Everybody  seemed  to  have  more  help  than  was 
at  all  necessary,  and  to  be  on  the  point  of  letting  some 
of  the  men  go.  By  afternoon,  I  was  tired  and  wet 
through,  and  cold  and  hungry,  and  more  than  half  sick 
and  thoroughly  discouraged.  I  felt  as  if  it  would  be  a 
relief  to  be  dead,  and  I  went  down  on  one  of  the  wharves 
to  try  to  drown  myself.  Not  that  I  preferred  that  man 
ner  of  killing  myself,  but  I  had  no  money  to  buy  a 
revolver  or  poison  or  chloroform.  I  should  have  pre 
ferred  chloroform,  I  think,  but,  probably,  if  I  had  had 
the  money  to  buy  it,  I  should  have  kept  going  a  little 
longer.  The  police  would  n't  let  me  drown  myself  in 
peace." 

Doctor  Olcott  had  been  fidgeting  in  his  chair. 
"Damn  it,  Eben!"  he  said  then.  "Damn  it,  why 
did  n't  you  let  some  of  us  know  ?  We'd  have  taken  care 
of  you." 

"  I  know,  doctor,  —  I  could  n't.  It  was  impossible. 
I  would  rather  die,  and  so  would  you,  in  my  place." 

Again  the  doctor  rumbled  in  his  throat.  Eben 
went  on. 

845 


OLD  HARBOR 


"About  dusk  I  went  off  the  wharf  to  find  another 
less  frequented.  On  the  way  I  met  a  girl ;  a  girl  whom 
I  had  known  when  I  —  when  I  was  running  with  the 
gang.  She  was  handsome;  strikingly  handsome,  in  a 
way,  and  young,  —  she  could  n't  have  been  more  than 
eighteen  or  nineteen,  — but  old  in  her  knowledge  of  the 
world  —  her  world.  In  short,  the  less  said  about  her, 
the  better.  She  persuaded  me  to  go  with  her.  I  was  so 
sick  that  I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  about,  and  I  went. 
She  nursed  me  through  a  long  illness." 

"Who  was  she,  Eben?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"She  did  n't  know,  herself,"  Eben  answered.  "She 
was  brought  up  in  the  streets.  She  did  n't  even  know 
how  old  she  was.  If  you  '11  excuse  me,  doctor,  I'd  rather 
not  talk  about  her.  But  she  took  care  of  me  through 
my  sickness.  I  was  very  sick.  When  I  got  well,  I  felt 
grateful  to  her  —  and  I  married  her." 

"What!"  cried  the  doctor.  "You  married,  Eben? 
Well,  it  might  have  been  a  good  job,  too." 

"  It  did  n't  turn  out  to  be  a  good  job.  Life  with  her 
began  to  be  unbearable,  almost  at  once.  I  need  n't  go 
into  the  reasons,  doctor.  In  the  course  of  the  next  three 
years,  I  sounded  the  uttermost  depths  of  wretchedness. 
I  left  her,  —  I  have  never  seen  her  nor  heard  of  her  from 
that  day  to  this,  —  and  I  went  to  sea.  I  had  always  longed 
to  go  to  sea.  Those  were  the  first  days  of  anything  like 
happiness  that  I  had  known  for  years.  Even  the  fore 
castle,  filled  with  bad  smells,  and  with  men  of  all  sorts, 
good,  bad,  and  worse,  —  mostly  worse, — was  like  a 

346 


OLD  HARBOR 


home.  I  was  contented,  in  a  way.  I  have  been  all 
over  the  world,  as  much  as  a  man  can  be,  in  sailing- 
ships,  in  ten  years. 

"  Well,  in  the  course  of  seven  years  I  had  risen  to  be 
first  mate ;  Jacob  Bronson,  mate.  You  would  not  have 
known  me,  doctor.  I  was  a  reckless  man,  worked  my 
crews  hard,  though  no  harder  than  I  worked  myself, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  that  Jacob  Bronson  had  a  bad 
reputation  among  the  men,  although  I  know  that  his 
reputation  with  owners  was  good.  I  maintained  strict 
discipline,  but  I  never  had  had  to  use  force.  Then  I 
shipped  in  the  'Susan.'" 

"What!"  cried  the  doctor.  "Frank  Catherwood's 
'Susan'?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Eben,  smiling,  "  Frank  Catherwood's 
'Susan.'  I  shipped  in  New  York  and  intended  to  leave 
her  in  New  York.  But  a  little  mutiny  brewed  just 
before  we  got  in.  There  were  only  three  or  four  men 
concerned  in  it.  It  was  directed  against  me.  I  had  to 
shoot  a  man ;  and,  as  the  shot  did  n't  stop  him,  I 
grabbed  an  iron  belaying-pin  and  hit  him.  I  heard  the 
bone  crunch  as  the  heavy  pin  hit  his  skull."  Eben 
shuddered  and  covered  his  face  as  he  recalled  it.  "  That 
moment,"  Eben  resumed,  taking  down  his  hand  after 
a  while, — "that  moment  fear  seized  upon  me;  fear  of 
what  I  had  done  and  of  the  possible  consequences.  But 
I  was  not  to  blame,  doctor,"  he  said  earnestly;  "I  was 
not  to  blame.  The  man  was  coming  at  me  with  a  knife 
in  his  hand.  He  was  mutinous,  and  there  were  three 

347 


OLD  HARBOR 


others  coming  behind  him.    Jim  Gunn  was  one  of 
them." 

"Jim  Gunn — who's  Jim  Gunn?" 

"I'll  come  to  him  in  a  few  minutes,"  Eben  replied. 
"He  was  one  of  the  three  others.  It  happened  that  we 
were  practically  alone  on  the  deck,  at  the  time.  There 
were  some  more  of  the  men  there,  but  they  were  away 
up  forward,  half  hidden  behind  the  foresail  and  the 
other  gear.  It  is  n't  likely  that  they  knew  that  anything 
was  going  on. 

"  Well,  when  I  hit  the  man  and  he  went  down  in  a 
heap,  that  ended  the  mutiny.  I  don't  think  I  showed 
that  I  was  afraid.  At  any  rate,  I  had  no  trouble  —  no 
more  trouble.  I  had  enough."  Eben  laughed ;  but  not 
merrily.  "I  managed  to  keep  up  appearances  before 
the  men  and  before  the  captain.  The  man  was  n't  dead 
when  we  got  in,  —  it 's  extraordinary  what  hold  they 
have  on  life,  —  and  I  had  not  been  confined.  The  cap 
tain  seemed  to  think  that  I  had  done  the  right  thing. 
He  kept  me  at  work.  He  intended  to  send  the  man  to 
some  hospital ;  not  that  he  thought  it  would  be  of  any 
use,  for  he  did  n't  see,  and  I  don't,  how  any  man  so  hurt 
could  possibly  get  well.  He  must  have  died  within  a 
day  or  two.  I  did  n't  wait  to  see. 

"  We  got  in  to  quarantine  along  about  dark,  and  were 
kept  there  overnight.  I  slipped  away  in  a  quarter  boat 
and  rowed  quietly  for  some  time,  until  I  was  out  of 
sight  of  the  'Susan.'  Before  morning,  I  had  boarded 
an  Italian  barque,  outward  bound,  and  shipped  as  a 

348 


OLD  HARBOR 


common  sailor.  My  conscience  was  easy  about  the 
quarter  boat,  for  there  was  pay  enough  coming  to  me, 
which  I  did  n't  get,  to  pay  for  more  than  one  boat. 
Frank  did  n't  lose  anything  by  me. 

"The  Italian  carried  me  to  several  Mediterranean 
ports,  and  I  shipped  on  an  English  vessel  for  India  as 
a  common  sailor.  I  could  have  done  better,  but  I 
did  n't  dare.  Well,  I  knocked  about  the  world  for 
almost  three  years  more,  with  that  obsession  of  fear 
upon  me.  It  made  it  worse.  I  should  have  been  ready 
to  back  up  my  action.  That  was  my  mistake  in  running 
away  from  the  'Susan.'  I  saw  it  long  ago.  At  last,  I 
drifted  back  to  this  country,  landed  at  Savannah  a  year 
ago  last  May,  and  began  to  beat  my  way  north.  I  had 
no  definite  idea  of  coming  here,  but  it  seemed  as  if  I 
simply  had  to  come.  It  took  me  nearly  six  months  to 
get  here,  and  I  was  pretty  nearly  done.  You  know  the 
rest." 

"  Ought  to  have  come  sooner,  Eben.  You  might  have 
been  happy,  just  as  well.  Eben  Joyce  could  have  gone 
to  sea  as  well  as  Jacob  Bronson.  Frank  would  have 
seen  to  that." 

"Yes,"  said  Eben,  "I  know  he  would." 

"Eben,"  the  doctor  went  on,  "as  to  that  man  you 
knocked  in  the  head,  it  served  him  just  right ;  it  is  n't 
likely  that  will  ever  be  raked  up.  If  it  should  be  — 

"Doctor  Olcott,"  said  Eben,  interrupting,  "I  saw 
Jim  Gunn  this  afternoon,  and  he  saw  me  and  knew  me. 
Like  a  fool,  I  ran ;  I  had  no  time  to  think.  And  he  ran 

349 


OLD  HARBOR 


after  me,  calling  to  Jacob  Bronson  to  stop.  It  is  raked 
up  already.  I  was  in  the  woods  with  Clanky  and  Joe." 

"H'm!"  said  the  doctor,  looking  at  Eben  thought 
fully.  "What  do  you  intend  to  do  about  it?" 

"I've  been  wrestling  with  that  question  for  the  last 
three  hours,"  replied  Eben.  "I've  come  to  a  decision. 
I'm  going  to  try  to  find  Gunn  again,  and  I'm  going  to 
take  him  to  Frank  and  put  the  whole  case  before  him, 
fully.  I  want  to  stand  trial  for  it,  if  that  is  necessary. 
But  whether  it  is  or  not,  and  whatever  the  outcome  — 
I'm  tired  of  being  afraid.  I'd  rather  hang." 

"Good,  Eben!"  the  doctor  cried.  "Good!  Do  you 
want  me  to  go  with  you  to  Frank's  office,  to-morrow  ? 
I  shall  be  glad  to,  if  you  do.  That  is,"  he  added,  smil 
ing,  "if  no  one  needs  me  worse  than  MissWetherbee." 

"Thank  you,  doctor.  I  don't  know  whether  I  do  or 
not.  I've  got  to  find  Gunn." 

"H'mph!"  the  doctor  growled.  "Gunn!  Guess 
you  '11  have  a  job.  I  would  n't  waste  any  time  over  him. 
If  you  do  find  him,  just  call  me,  will  you?  I  want 
to  be  there." 

Eben  smiled  and  nodded.  He  rose.  "Well,  doctor, 
I  '11  go  along.  It  has  been  good  of  you  to  listen.  I  feel 
better  than  I  have  for  years." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

EBEN  did  not  find  James  Gunn,  Esquire,  although 
he  searched  for  him  faithfully.  But  he  did  find  William 
Ransome,  who  gave  him  the  latest  news  that  was  to  be 
obtained  of  Gunn. 

"  That  Gunn  seems  to  have  gone  off,"  said  William, 
smiling  quietly;  and  Eben  laughed  with  a  heartiness 
that  was  new  to  William,  and  they  went  to  Colonel 
Catherwood's  office  together.  It  was  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon,  for  Eben  had  wasted  the  whole  of  the  morn 
ing  in  his  fruitless  search  for  Gunn. 

The  colonel  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  him.  He  nodded 
to  William  and  took  Eben's  hand  in  his. 

Eben  smiled.  "  I  'm  afraid/'  he  said,  "  that  you  know 
my  errand  already.  Doctor  Olcott  must  have  been 
here." 

"  He  has  been,"  replied  the  colonel ;  "  and  he  has  told 
me  the  story  that  you  told  him.  Eben,  why  —  why  in 
the  world  could  n't  you  have  told  some  of  us  sooner? 
I  could  have  saved  you  much  unhappiness.  That  sailor 
that  you  laid  out  did  not  die;  he  got  well  after  four 
months  in  hospital.  The  surgeons  said  it  was  a  most 
extraordinary  case.  But  even  if  he  had  not,  you  had 
nothing  to  fear.  And,  Eben,  here  is  a  chair." 

For  Eben  seemed  to  have  grown  weak  in  the  knees, 
351 


OLD  HARBOR 


suddenly,  and  was  looking  about  him  in  a  dazed  way. 
The  revulsion  of  feeling  was  too  sudden.  He  sank  into 
the  chair  and  put  both  hands  over  his  face ;  but  only 
for  a  minute. 

"Thank  you,  Frank,"  he  said  then,  looking  up; 
"  thank  you.  It  takes  a  weight  off  my  mind  —  a  great 
weight.  It  is  a  great  responsibility,  the  life  of  a  man, 
even  although  it  was  necessary  to  take  it  to  save  my 
own  life;  and  justifiable.  I  am  more  glad  than  I  can 
tell  you  that  he  got  well." 

The  colonel  smiled.  "It  may  not  be  a  benefit  to  the 
community,"  he  returned.  "  I  believe  he  is  a  hard  char 
acter  still  —  as  bad  as  he  was  before.  But  I  am  glad,  for 
your  sake,  Eben.  I  am  glad,  too,  to  know  Jacob  Bron- 
son  at  last.  I  have  been  looking  for  him  for  some  years. 
He  was  the  best  mate  that  the  'Susan'  ever  had." 

The  colonel  was  still  looking  down  at  Eben  and 
smiling.  "Was  he,  Frank?"  asked  Eben,  wistfully. 
"  Do  you  mean  it  ?  Would  you  —  would  you  give  him 
that  berth  again?" 

"  If  he  would  take  it.  That  is  the  main  reason  why 
I  wanted  so  much  to  find  him." 

"I'll  take  it!"  Eben  fairly  shouted.  "I'll  take  it! 
Frank,  I  have  n't  been  so  happy  for  —  oh,  ever."  He 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  wrung  the  colonel's  hand. 
"  Now,"  he  said,  "  now,  Frank,  I  must  call  you  Colonel 
Catherwood  and  be  most  respectful.  For  are  you  not 
my  owner?" 

The  colonel  laughed.  "  Bosh,  Eben ! "  he  replied.  "  I 
352 


OLD  HARBOR 


don't   believe   William  knows  what  we   are  talking 
about." 

"  Partly,"  said  William.  "  I  am  a  pretty  good  guesser. 
A  part  I  can't  even  guess." 

"Don't  you  think,  Eben,"  the  colonel  suggested, 
"  that  you  might  tell  William  the  story  ?  He  is  sure  to 
hear  it,  and  he  had  better  hear  it  from  you." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Eben.    "  I  meant  to  tell  him." 

William  sat  down,  and  Colonel  Catherwood  sat  in 
his  chair,  again,  before  his  desk,  and  absent-mindedly 
took  up  some  loose  sheets  that  he  seemed  to  have  been 
looking  over,  and  slipped  them  into  a  drawer.  Wil 
liam's  practiced  eye  noted  it.  Eben  told  his  story  again ; 
but  he  said  no  more  than  he  was  obliged  to  about  the 
girl,  and  he  did  not  mention  his  marriage. 

William  listened  well,  but  toward  the  end  of  the 
story,  he  surreptitiously  looked  at  his  watch  twice. 
When  Eben  had  made  an  end  of  it,  William  thanked 
him  for  it,  and  expressed  his  interest.  He  had  really 
been  interested  in  Eben's  story ;  but  he  was  much  more 
vitally  interested  in  something  else.  He  excused  him 
self,  on  the  score  of  an  engagement,  and  left  Eben 
with  the  colonel.  William,  it  must  be  confessed,  had 
no  engagement;  but  he  had  hopes.  He  went  up  the 
street  hastily ;  almost  on  a  run. 

As  he  got  near  the  head  of  the  street,  he  saw  her. 
She  was  walking  slowly,  as  if  she  hoped  that  somebody 
in  particular  would  overtake  her ;  at  least,  that  seemed 
a  possible  explanation.  William  whistled,  and  Abbie 

353 


OLD  HARBOR 


looked  around,  quickly;  and,  seeing  her  look,  William 
waved  his  hat  and  began  to  run.  Abbie,  in  the  most 
brazen  and  barefaced  manner,  waved  in  return  and 
stood  stock-still  and  waited  for  him,  smiling  as  though 
the  very  somebody  in  particular  had  turned  up,  at  last. 

William  came  up,  rather  breathless  and  rather  ex 
cited. 

"William,  William,"  Abbie  said,  "you  must  n't  run 
so.  You  get  all  out  of  breath,  and  it  might  be  bad 
for  your  heart.  You  are  not  so  young  as  you  were." 

"No,"  retorted  William.  "Neither  is  anybody  else. 
Do  you  know  why  I  envy  Sir  Launcelot?" 

Abbie  laughed  quickly.  "No,"  she  said.  "He  has 
been  dead  a  long  time." 

"  That  is  not  the  reason.  Sir  Tristram  was  accounted 
a  big  man,  and  a  strong  knight  of  his  hands,  but  Sir 
Launcelot  was  better  breathed.  That  is  not  in  quota 
tion  marks.  They  must,  all  of  them,  have  been  well- 
breathed  men." 

"I  am  afraid,  William,  you  have  — 

"  Oh,  yes,"  William  interrupted,  "  I  have  been  read 
ing  Sir  Thomas ;  second  volume  —  I  don't  remember 
the  page,  but  about  the  middle.  As  for  my  heart,  we 
will  speak  of  that  later." 

"  William,"  asked  Abbie,  laughing, "  what  is  the  mat 
ter  with  you?" 

"Nothing,"  William  replied  ;  "  nothing  at  all.  There 
was  something  the  matter,  and  I  did  n't  know  what  it 
was.  Since  I  have  found  out  what  it  is,  it  is  not  a  matter 

354 


OLD  HARBOR 


any  longer,  although  I  am  just  as  much  affected  as  ever ; 
more  so,  I  think.   Do  I  make  myself  clear?" 

"  You  certainly  do  not.  I  should  call  you  just  a  plain 
lunatic.  But  come  along  and  tell  me  where  you  have 
been  these  last  few  days." 

William  laughed  delightedly.  "  I  have  been  engaged 
in  introspection;  trying  to  find  out  just  what  was  the 
matter  with  me.  It  was  n't  until  yesterday  that  I  dis 
covered.  I  was  coming,  as  fast  as  I  could,  to  share  my 
guilty  secret  with  you,  when  something  occurred  to 
detain  me.  To-day,  I  just  missed  missing  you  by  the 
skin  of  my  teeth.  And  you  rebuked  me  for  running ! " 

"You  deserve  the  rebuke,"  replied  Abbie,  "for  al 
lowing  anything  to  detain  you  yesterday,  if  not  for 
running  to-day.  What  was  it,  William,  that  detained 
you  ?  Account  for  yourself." 

Accordingly,  William  launched  forth  into  the  story  of 
Eben  Joyce,  incidentally  including  that  of  Gunn.  It 
took  some  time. 

"  Eben  did  not  tell  me  the  whole  of  it,"  he  said,  when 
he  had  finished ;  "  I  am  certain  of  that.  I  don't  know 
the  rest.  Perhaps  you  do.  I  could  guess  it,  I  think." 

Abbie  did  not  reply  directly.  "So  Eben  is  likely  to 
be  a  man  again.  I  am  very  glad,  very  glad." 

"  Likely  to,  in  time,"  William  returned.  "  A  man  can 
hardly  be  expected  to  shake  off  the  habit  of  fear  at 
once.  But  let  us  hope  it  won't  take  long." 

Abbie  echoed  his  last  words.  "It  won't  take  long. 
Mike  Loughery  is  back  again." 

355 


OLD   HARBOR 


"He  seems  to  have  deserted  the  'Susan'  in  New 
York.  But,  Abbie,  enough  said  about  Eben,  for  the 
present.  He's  happy.  There's  a  little  affair  of  my  own 
that  I  want  to  talk  about." 

They  had  got  well  beyond  the  houses  while  William 
had  been  telling  Eben's  story,  and  they  had  come  to  a 
little  patch  of  oak  woods.  A  wood-road,  little  used, 
went  winding  in  among  the  trees. 

"  Well,"  Abbie  replied,  "  why  don't  you  talk  about  it, 
then?" 

"I  will,"  said  William.  "Come  in  here.  It  looks 
inviting." 

"  Just  as  if  we  did  n't  know,  exactly,  every  road  and 
path  within  reach ! "  But  Abbie  went,  willingly  enough. 

Just  as  if  you  did  n't  know,  Abbie,  exactly  what 
William  was  going  to  say!  But  Abbie  did  not  know 
exactly.  If  she  had  known,  it  is  to  be  supposed  that  it 
would  have  made  no  difference.  The  same  old  formula 
seems  to  possess  the  same  old  attraction  for  all  of  them, 
when  it  is  attractive  at  all. 

"  My  heart,  you  know,"  said  William,  smiling ;  "  we 
were  to  speak  of  that  later." 

Abbie  was  looking  at  the  ground  before  her  feet,  and 
she  was  smiling,  too. 

"  Oh,  were  we  ?  Well,  your  heart  — what's  the  mat 
ter  with  it?  Not  your  running,  I  hope." 

The  grass-grown  road  on  which  they  were  walking 
so  very  slowly  took  a  turn  here.  William  waited  until 
they  were  well  around  the  turn. 

356 


OLD  HARBOR 


"No,  Abbie,  not  my  running." 

There  was  a  venturesome  pine  tree  which  had  grown 
in  the  road,  between  the  rut  and  the  hoof-track;  had 
grown  just  as  high  as  the  axles  which  passed  above  it. 
William  would  not  let  a  tree  come  between  him  and 
Abbie.  Perhaps  he  was  superstitious.  He  crossed  to 
her  side.  There  was  hardly  room  for  two. 

"I  find,  Abbie,"  said  he  then,  "that  my  heart  — 
Well,  I  have  n't  got  it." 

As  he  spoke,  she,  walking  on  the  edge  of  the  rut, 
almost  lost  her  balance.  William  put  his  arm  about  her 
quickly. 

She  did  not  draw  away ;  to  be  sure  he  had  not  ex 
pected  that  she  would,  but  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 
Her  eyes  were  very  soft  and  shining. 

"Oh,  William,"  she  cried  gently,  laughing  low, 
"how  absurd  we  are!  Just  like  two  young  lovers." 

"Well,"  he  contended  stoutly,  "we  are." 

"Not  young,"  said  she;  "not  so  very  young." 

"As  young  as  youth  itself,"  he  said.  "  I  will  not  yield 
in  that  matter  to  the  youngest  youth  ever  made  love. 
And  I  hold  you  to  be  as  young  as  the  youngest  woman 
ever  was  made  love  to." 

"You  hold  me,  it  is  true." 

He  raised  her  chin  and  kissed  her  full  on  the  mouth. 

"  You  should  n't  have  done  that,  William,"  she  said, 
with  a  fine  color.  "  You  are  not  to  think  that  I  did  n't 
like  it;  for  I  did.  But  you  should  n't  have  done  it." 

He  was  plainly  astonished.  In  that,  he  showed  his 
357 


OLD  HARBOR 


inexperience.  If  he  had  had  experience  of  women, 
he  would  never  have  been  astonished  at  anything  a 
woman  did  or  said. 

"Well,  why,"  he  asked,  "for  heaven's  sake?"  But 
it  is  to  be  noted  that  he  kept  his  arm  about  her. 

"We  are  not  even  engaged." 

"Not  even  engaged!"  William  laughed. 

"  You  have  n't  asked  me  anything  yet,"  Abbie  an 
swered  demurely. 

"Will  you  have  me  on  my  knees?"  asked  William. 
"Wait  until  I  find  a  soft  spot."  He  dropped  upon  one 
knee.  "Abbie,  I  love  you.  Will  you  be  my  wife?" 

Laughing,  she  put  both  her  hands  upon  his  shoul 
ders.  "Yes,"  she  said  promptly.  "I  will,  if  you  will 
promise  to  let  me  read  everything  that  you  write  as  you 
write  it,  and  talk  to  me  freely  about  it." 

"I'm  dying  to,"  William  said,  jumping  to  his  feet. 
"  Now,  Abbie,  are  we  engaged  ? " 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  raising  merry  eyes  to  his. 

"And  I  may  kiss  you?" 

"If  you  want  to." 

"Like  the  other?" 

She  only  nodded.  But  he  did  not  have  to  raise  her 
chin ;  her  arms  were  about  his  neck. 

"Oh,  William,  William!"  she  sighed  contentedly. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

"ABBIE  MERVIN,"  said  Harriet  Joyce,  decidedly, 
"  now  that  Eben  is  all  settled  and  fixed  nicely,  I  want 
to  get  you  and  William  off  my  mind." 

"  Why,  Harriet,"  replied  Miss  Mervin,  falteringly,  — 
it  was  not  like  her  to  falter,  — "  what  makes  you 
think  —  " 

"Fiddlesticks,  Abbie!  You  have  been  looking  posi 
tively  beaming  for  more  than  a  week,  and  so  has 
William,  when  I  have  seen  him.  Did  you  think  that 
nobody  would  know  unless  you  told  them  ? " 

Abbie  laughed  happily.  "  Forgive  me,  Harriet,"  she 
said.  "I  should  have  told  you  at  once,  but  —  but  — 
Oh,  why  make  any  bones  of  it  ?  I  was  afraid  that  you 
might  not  like  it.  William  was  devoted  to  you  for  so 
long !  But  /  don't  care." 

"Truly, why  make  any  bones  of  it  ?"  smiled  Harriet. 
"  If  I  could  n't  make  up  my  mind  in  all  that  time,  it 
is  n't  likely  that  I  should  grudge  him  to  you  now.  It 
would  serve  me  right  if  I  did.  I  am  not  a  dog  in  the 
manger,  I  hope.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  find  that  I  am 
rather  relieved.  William  was  a  tremendous  responsi 
bility.  I  suppose  I  should  have  taken  him  at  last, 
merely  on  that  account.  But  I  am  happy  to  resign  him 
to  you,  Abbie.  I  wish  you  happiness." 

359 


OLD  HARBOR 


"Thank  you,  Harriet,"  said  Abbie,  coldly. 

Harriet  noticed  it.  "  Now  don't  you  go  and  get  mad, 
Abbie,"  she  said.  "  I  know  very  well  that  I  had  no 
thing  to  resign.  It  was  merely  a  figure  of  speech.  When 
are  you  going  to  get  married  ?" 

A  slow  blush  mounted  intoAbbie's  cheeks,  the  rose- 
tint  upon  porcelain.  "  I  don't  know.  William  wants  to 
very  soon.  I  guess  we  shall,  Harriet;  I  guess  we  shall." 

"I'm  glad,  Abbie.  Then  I  can  keep  you  both,"  said 
Harriet,  with  satisfaction.  "  I  give  you  warning,  I  shall 
ask  you  to  tea  often,  and  I  shall  expect  you  to  come. 
That  will  suit  me  very  much  better  than  having  to  get 
married  myself.  I  was  not  cut  out  to  be  a  married 
woman." 

"  What  nonsense,  Harriet !"  cried  Abbie,  indignantly. 
"  Every  woman  is  cut  out  for  it.  Your  thinking  so  only 
shows  that  WTilliam  was  not  the  right  man.  And  I'm 
glad  of  that." 

Abbie  kissed  her.  Harriet  sniffed  contemptuously, 
and  withdrew. 

"  I  am  not  your  William,"  she  said  dryly. 

Abbie  laughed  gayly.  "  Did  you  think  that  I  mistook 
you  for  him?" 

"  No,  I  did  n't.  Have  you  made  any  plans,  Abbie  ? 
Where  shall  you  live?  Has  William  thought  of  a 
house?" 

"Well,  yes,  he  has.  But  I've  got  a  surprise  for  him. 
We  may  as  well  live  in  my  house;  that  is,  if  William 
agrees." 

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OLD  HARBOR 


"If  William  agrees!"  cried  Harriet.  "If  William 
did  n't  agree  to  such  an  eminently  suitable  arrange 
ment,  I  would  n't  marry  him." 

Again  Abbie  laughed  delightedly.  "But,  Harriet," 
she  said  softly,  "  you  know  it  will  have  to  be  as  William 
wishes." 

Harriet  looked  at  her  as  if  she  could  not  believe  her 
ears.  "Faugh!"  she  exclaimed,  in  disgust.  "Abbie 
Mervin,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  have  n't  any 
more  to  say  than  a  cat  ?  I  had  better  say  a  dog,  for 
a  cat  would,  at  least,  live  where  she  wanted  to." 

"  So  shall  I  live  where  I  want  to.  I  want  to  live  where 
William  does." 

"  So  would  a  dog." 

"  So  much  the  better  for  the  dog,"  returned  Abbie, 
undisturbed.  "He  puts  a  higher  value  on  the  society 
he  keeps  than  on  the  mere  place.  But  let 's  not  quarrel 
about  it,  Harriet.  I  have  no  doubt  William  will  agree 
readily  enough.  He's  an  agreeing  person." 

"No  doubt,"  said  Harriet,  rather  scornfully; 
although  it  is  difficult  to  see  what  William  had  done  to 
deserve  it.  "  With  only  your  mother  and  your  aunt  in 
that  great  house,  it  does  seem  as  if  you  ought  to  be  able 
to  find  room.  It's  convenient  to  the  bank." 

Abbie  flushed  again.  "Any  house  in  Old  Har 
bor  would  be  convenient  to  the  bank,  for  that  mat 
ter,"  she  replied.  "But,  Harriet,  prepare  for  a  shock. 
William  has  promised  me  that  he  will  give  up  the 
bank." 

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OLD  HARBOR 


Harriet  was  as  shocked  as  anybody  could  have 
wished.  "Give  up  the  bank!"  she  cried.  "He  has 
promised  you!  Abbie  Mervin,  are  you  crazy?" 

Abbie  positively  chuckled  at  it.  "No,"  she  said, 
"  I  'm  not.  He 's  going  to  have  time  to  write,  and  he 's 
going  to  write.  It's  a  shame  that  he  has  n't  been  able 
to  devote  his  whole  time  to  it.  I'm  going  to  give  him 
the  southwest  front  room,  —  father's  old  room,  you 
know.  It's  a  nice,  sunny  room,  where  he  won't  be 
disturbed.  Of  course,  he  does  n't  know  it  yet." 

"Well!"  Harriet  said.  "Well!  I  can't  find  words 
that  would  be  at  all  suitable  for  me  to  say.  Doctor 
Olcott  might  help  me  out,  or  even  Eben.  He  does  n't 
use  bad  language,  but  he  must  have  heard  a  lot.  W7hat 
are  you  going  to  live  on?" 

"  William  has  some  money  and  so  have  I,  you  know. 
That  will  be  enough  until  he  makes  some  with  his 
writing." 

"Makes  money  with  his  writing!"  cried  Harriet, 
incredulously.  "  Sell  that  stuff !  You  are  a  fool,  Abbie." 

Abbie  did  not  resent  it ;  she  only  laughed.  "  Wait  and 
see,"  she  said.  "It  won't  be  any  great  harm  if  he 
doesn't.  He'll  be  doing  the  work  that  he  loves."  She 
glanced  out  of  the  window.  "Here's  Eben,  now.  You 
might  get  him  to  supply  you  with  language,  Harriet. 
My,  how  it  blows !  And  it 's  beginning  to  rain.  I  guess 
I'd  better  be  getting  home,  Harriet." 

Eben  came  running  up  the  walk  and  burst  in  at  the 
front  door.  "Harriet!"  he  called. 

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OLD  HARBOR 


"  In  here,  Eben,"  Harriet  answered  calmly.  "  What 's 
the  matter?  Is  the  house  afire?" 

" No,"  said  Eben,  laughing.  "Hello,  Abbie !  Where 
are  my  oil-skins,  Harriet  ?  The  '  Susan'  's  sighted, .and 
it'll  be  blowing  a  living  gale  o'  wind  in  three  hours. 
She  gets  in  in  the  nick  o'  time,  with  this  dirty  weather 
coming." 

"  Oh,"  said  Harriet.  "  I  '11  get  your  oil-skins,  Eben. 
I  hung  them  out  in  the  back  hall." 

She  was  gone  only  a  few  minutes,  and  came  back 
with  the  oil-skins  and  sou'wester.  Eben  took  them 
from  her. 

"  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  be  back,  Harriet ;  prob 
ably  not  to  supper.  Don't  sit  up  for  me.  I  may  as  well 
get  a  bite  of  something  now." 

He  went  as  suddenly  as  he  had  come. 

"I  can't  get  used  to  Eben's  new  ways,"  Harriet  re 
marked.  "They  are  very  different  from  his  old  ones." 

Abbie  murmured  something  —  it  did  not  matter  in  the 
least  what  it  was  —  and  began  to  put  on  her  things. 

"  Eben  '11  be  sailing  as  soon  as  he  can  get  the  '  Susan ' 
ready,"  Harriet  continued.  She  laughed  a  little.  "To 
tell  the  truth,  Abbie,  I  shan't  be  sorry,  and  it  will  be 
a  welcome  change  for  him.  I  shall  feel  rather  relieved 
to  have  my  house  to  myself.  And  he  will  be  doing  what 
he  likes  best  in  the  world." 

"That's  the  way  I  feel  about  William's  writing." 

"  But,  Abbie,"  Harriet  remonstrated,  in  tones  which 
she  could  not  keep  from  seeming  shocked,  —  not  that 

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OLD  HARBOR 


she  tried,  —  "our  —  we  have  been  sea-captains  and 
ship-owners  for  —  oh,  as  far  back  as  I  know  anything 
about  us.  It's  so  different!" 

Abbie  laughed.  "  I  really  believe,  Harriet,"  she  said, 
"that  you  can't  see  through  a—-  Well,  good-by." 

She  went  out,  and  the  wind,  careering  around  the 
house,  seized  upon  her,  and  had  blown  her  off  the  walk 
and  up  against  one  of  the  great  elms  before  she  knew 
what  it  was  up  to.  Then,  in  pure  joyousness,  she 
laughed  aloud;  and,  entering  into  the  freakish  spirit 
of  the  wind,  which  had  not  settled  down  to  anything 
in  particular  yet,  but  came  in  gusts,  she  struggled  back 
to  the  walk  and  out  at  the  gate,  and  at  last,  home.  It 
had  not  begun  to  rain  in  earnest ;  only  a  hard,  driving 
mist,  coming  with  the  gusts  of  wind. 

Nobody  in  Old  Harbor  slept  much  that  night,  except 
the  children.  They,  for  the  most  part,  would  have 
slept  soundly  through  anything.  Such  small  things  as 
the  lashing  of  the  rain  upon  the  windows  and  the  roar 
ing  of  the  wind  and  the  breaking  of  branches  and  the 
occasional  crash  of  a  tree  and  the  thunder  of  the  surf 
upon  the  distant  beaches  would  not  bother  healthy 
children.  The  roar  from  the  Middle  Breaker  was  tre 
mendous  ;  it  sounded  as  if  the  surf  were  just  outside  the 
windows. 

Abbie,  having  dismissed  William  and  warned  him 
to  be  careful  and  to  go  right  home,  went  to  bed  to  lie 
awake,  listening  happily  to  the  noise  of  the  elements. 
And  William,  having  listened  smilingly  to  Abbie's 

364 


OLD  HARBOR 


warning,  went  down  to  Colonel  Catherwood's  office 
to  offer  his  help.  William  and  the  colonel  and  Eben 
and  many  another  good  man  worked  hard  all  that 
night,  and  went  home  in  the  morning  drenched  through, 
after  making  the  "Susan  "  as  safe  as  she  could  be  made 
and  seeing  her  ride  out  the  storm  until  daylight.  Most 
of  the  lesser  vessels  were  safe,  too;  but  three  of  them 
were  blown  ashore  at  the  upper  end  of  the  harbor. 
Nobody  took  the  trouble  to  count  the  dories  and  skiffs 
that  were  smashed  up.  The  old  shipyard  was  devas 
tated,  and  the  scaffolding,  which  had  stood  for  so  many 
years,  was  knocked  down  and  carried  off  by  wind  and 
tide,  to  be  distributed  along  the  shores.  A  row  of  fisher 
men's  huts  which  had  stood  on  a  long  sand -spit  was 
swept  clean  away  during  the  night ;  the  sand-spit  itself 
was  not  there  in  the  morning,  and  the  sea  had  even 
breached  the  sea-wall  that  had  stood  at  the  root  of  it, 
and  had  carried  the  stones  away,  or  covered  them  so 
deep  with  sand  that  they  could  not  be  found  to  make 
repairs.  The  wall  has  not  been  repaired  yet.  And 
another  long  sand-spit  now  runs  in  over  what  was  once 
a  meadow. 

It  was  at  this  break  in  the  sea-wall  that  Clanky  Beg 
was  found,  drenched  with  salt  water,  sitting  in  the  rain 
beside  Mike  Loughery's  dead  body  and  weeping  as 
though  his  heart  would  break.  To  those  wrho  found 
him  there,  he  would  say  nothing,  —  nothing  intelligible, 
—  but  to  call  for  William  Ransome.  William  had  just 
got  home ;  but  he  went  out  again  and  down  to  the  re- 

365 


OLD  HARBOR 


mains  of  the  sea-wall  —  and  to  the  remains  of  Mike, 
Clanky  had  resolutely  refused  to  leave  Mike,  and  still 
sat  beside  his  body;  and  all  that  William  was  able  to 
get  out  of  him  was  a  passionate  denial  that  he  had 
killed  Mike,  and  a  lament  that  he  had  not  been  able  to 
save  him.  Mike's  death  remained  a  mystery.  Clanky 
seemed  to  be  satisfied  when  he  had,  in  a  measure, 
accounted  to  William.  Clanky  felt  an  obligation,  dim 
and  hazy,  no  doubt,  to  satisfy  him.  Then  he  went 
with  him,  readily  enough,  to  Mrs.  Loughery's. 

Miss  Hitty  Tilton  and  Miss  Susie  had  tried  to  occupy 
themselves  as  usual,  the  evening  before,  but  they  had 
not  been  able  to.  Miss  Hitty  found  herself  listening  to 
the  increasing  roar  of  the  Middle  Breaker,  and  Miss 
Susie  was  plainly  nervous. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  heard  Old  Middle  so  loud," 
remarked  Miss  Hitty,  calmly ;  "  any  way,  not  since  the 
September  gale  of  sixty-nine  —  or  was  it  sixty-seven  or 
seventy-one  ?  When  was  it,  Susie  ?  WThen  was  it  that 
old  Mis'  Marsh  got  blown  across  the  street  and  broke 
her  leg?  Don't  you  know?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't,  sister,"  answered  Miss  Susie, 
plaintively.  "Don't  you  know?  I  depend  upon  you 
to  remember  all  those  things."  Miss  Susie  laughed  to 
conceal  her  nervousness.  A  fiercer  gust  shook  the  house 
and  lashed  the  rain  against  the  panes ;  it  seemed  to  have 
blown  off  Miss  Susie's  glasses,  which  dangled  now  at 
the  end  of  their  black  ribbon.  "Mercy!"  she  cried. 
"  Oh,  sister,  was  n't  that  awful  ?  Do  you  —  do  you 

366 


OLD  HARBOR 


suppose  there's  any  danger  that  the  house  will  blow 
down?  I'd  like  to  be  prepared." 

Miss  Hitty  laughed.  "Well,  Susie,  you  can't  do 
better  than  get  your  stockings  all  darned  up.  Then 
you'd  better  put  on  your  best  pair  and  go  to  bed.  I'd 
advise  you  to  lie  out  straight  and  fold  your  hands  across 
your  stomach.  It'll  look  better  and  save  trouble." 

Miss  Susie  looked  relieved,  and  secured  her  glasses 
again  by  running  her  fingers  quickly  down  the  ribbon ; 
a  movement  made  perfect  by  long  practice.  She  stuck 
the  glasses  on  her  nose  again. 

"  Now,  sister,  you  're  poking  fun  at  me.  But,  really, 
it  seemed  as  if  there  might  be  danger  that  the  house 
would  blow  down.  It  shakes  so  at  every  gust." 

"  This  old  house  has  stood  many  a  harder  blow  than 
this,"  said  Miss  Hitty,  dryly.  "Don't  you  worry, 
Susie." 

"  Well,  I  won't,  if  you  think  there  is  no  danger.  But 
I'm  sorry  for  the  sailors  out  at  sea." 

"So  am  I,"  agreed  Miss  Hitty,  quickly.  "So  should 
every  one  be  that  knows  anything  about  sailors.  But 
don't  you  remember  the  poem  ?  '  Don't  you  hear  it 
roar,  now  ?  Lordy !  But  I  'm  sorry  for  all  unhappy 
folks  ashore,  now ! ' ' 

"  I  seem  to  remember  it,"  replied  Miss  Susie.  "  But, 
if  you  '11  pardon  me,  sister,  it  does  n't  strike  me  that 
you  have  quoted  it  just  right.  It  seems  to  me  to  have 
too  many  feet." 

"Feet,  hands,  ears,  or  eyes!"  sniffed  Miss  Hitty,  in 
367 


OLD  HARBOR 


disgust.  "  It  is  the  sentiment  I  wished  to  make  you  see; 
the  point  of  view  of  the  sailor.  Although  I  don't  be 
lieve,"  she  continued,  "that  any  sailor  ever  looked  at  it 
in  that  way.  If  he  did,  he'd  be  a  fool.  Can  you  quote 
it  any  better,  Susie?" 

"I'm  afraid  not." 

Miss  Hitty  was  silent  for  some  time.  A  great  limb 
crashed  down  from  one  of  the  trees. 

"Oh!"  Miss  Susie  cried.  "I  wonder  what  branch 
that  was." 

"I've  got  it,  Susie,"  said  Hitty,  with  satisfaction. 

"Oh,  have  you,  sister?  What  tree  do  you  think 
it  was?"  Miss  Susie  laid  her  work  in  her  lap  and 
looked  up. 

"Not  that,  Susie,"  said  Miss  Hitty,  impatiently; 
"  the  quotation.  '  Oh,  Lordy !  How  I  pities  all  unhappy 
folks  on  shore,  now.'  There !  Now  I  'm  going  to  bed." 
She  got  out  of  her  chair  with  the  quick  motion  that 
had  always  been  characteristic  of  her.  It  was  not  easy 
for  her  to  move  quickly,  now ;  no  one  knew  how  hard 
it  was.  "Good-night,  Susie.  The  house  won't  blow 
down.  But  remember  to  lie  out  straight  with  your 
hands  clasped  over  your  stomach." 

"Oh,  sister!"  cried  Miss  Susie. 

But  Hitty  was  gone.  She  got  herself  into  her  own 
bed,  settled  herself  with  a  sigh,  and  was  lulled  to  sleep 
by  Old  Middle.  Miss  Hitty  could  never  understand 
how  any  sensible  person  could  be  kept  awake  by  the 
noise  of  the  surf.  Although  she  went  to  sleep  readily, 

368 


OLD  HARBOR 


she  woke  long  before  light.  It  was  one  of  the  penalties 
of  old  age.  She  lay  there  patiently  waiting  for  day 
light  ;  and  when  it  began  to  be  gray  and  there  was  light 
enough  to  see,  she  dressed  herself  quietly  and  sat  by 
her  window,  looking  out  at  the  devastation. 

The  street  was  covered  with  leaves  and  twigs ;  and 
there  was  a  huge  limb  torn  off  one  of  the  elms,  nearly 
opposite  her  window,  that  pretty  nearly  blocked  the 
street.  She  could  see  the  long  scar  running  down 
towards  the  ground,  where  the  bark  had  been  stripped 
from  the  tree.  It  made  her  wonder  how  their  own  trees 
had  fared — Nancy's  trees,  now.  There  was  one  near 
their  fence  that  she  was  afraid  —  it  was  an  old  tree, 
and  she  was  afraid  that  it  might  have  gone.  In  half 
an  hour  she  had  made  up  her  mind. 

"I'm  not  going  to  die  but  once,"  she  said  cheerfully, 
to  herself;  and  she  got  her  things  on  —  her  old 
bonnet  and  her  long  cloak  —  a  present  from  Nancy 
—  and  her  rubbers.  "It's  not  much  use  to  take  an 
umbrella,"  she  murmured,  "but  I'll  take  it  —  a  sop 
to  Cerberus.  It  will  be  a  sop."  She  laughed  at  the 
fancy. 

As  she  opened  her  door,  she  heard  Susie  pottering 
about  in  her  room,  and  she  stole  downstairs  quietly, 
chuckling  to  herself  and  feeling  like  a  guilty  child. 

It  was  still  blowing  hard,  although  not  nearly  so  hard 
as  it  had  been,  and  the  rain  came  down  in  hard,  driving 
showers.  An  umbrella  was  of  no  use,  and  Miss  Hitty 
took  hers  under  her  cloak.  She  made  her  way  slowly 

369 


OLD  HARBOR 


and  with  difficulty  past  the  fallen  limbs  and  amid 
general  ruin  toward  Nancy's.  At  the  corner  she  saw 
Abbie  Mervin. 

"  Dear  me ! "  she  said  to  herself.  "  Now  I  'm  in  for  it. 
I'll  hold  on  here  and  perhaps  she  won't  see  me." 

So  she  held  to  the  fence,  —  she  was  glad  of  that  sup 
port,  she  found,  —  but  Abbie  had  seen  her,  and  came 
over. 

"Why,  Miss  Hitty!"  she  cried.  "You  ought  never 
to  be  out  in  this  weather.  Let  me  take  you  home.  You 
might  catch  your  death." 

"Now,  Abbie  Mervin,"  Miss  Hitty  said  decidedly, 
"  if  I  want  to  risk  my  life,  I  '11  take  the  responsibility. 
I  'm  going  to  Nancy  Hedge's  to  see  if  any  of  our  trees 
have  been  blown  down.  It 's  only  a  step  farther.  Don't 
you  try  to  manage  me.  You'll  have  your  hands  full 
managing  William." 

Abbie  blushed.  "I'll  go  with  you,"  she  said.  "It's 
not  that  I  want  to  manage  you,  Miss  Hitty,  but  that  it 's 
important  to  all  of  us  to  have  you  take  care  of  yourself. 
Will  you  go  in  to  Miss  Hedge's?" 

"Yes,  I  will,  if  that  will  satisfy  you,"  replied  Miss 
Hitty,  smiling,  "and  be  glad  enough  to.  I  know,  as 
well  as  you  do,  Abbie,  that  I  had  no  business  to  come 
out  this  morning,  but  I  just  had  to.  What  are  you 
up  to?" 

"Oh,  I'm  looking  for  William,"  answered  Abbie, 
sighing.  "  I  had  a  presentiment  that  he  had  not  gone 
right  home  last  night,  as  I  told  him  to,  and  I've  been 

370 


OLD  HARBOR 


down  to  see.  He  was  n't  at  home  all  night.  And  no 
sooner  was  he  back  this  morning  than  he  went  out 
again.  I  don't  know  why.  Now,  I  'm  looking  for  him. 
What  ever  am  I  to  do  with  him,  Miss  Hitty  ?" 

"Marry  him,"  snapped  Miss  Hitty.  "Marry  him 
right  away.  He'll  never  take  care  of  himself.  You 
won't  be  making  any  mistake,  nor  he,  either." 

Abbie  laughed.  "That's  what  I'd  about  made  up 
my  mind  to  do." 

They  had  been  going  on  as  fast  as  Miss  Hitty  was 
able,  and  now  they  were  almost  at  Nan's  gate.  Miss 
Hitty  saw  that  her  old  tree  that  she  was  anxious  about 
still  stood ;  but  almost  half  of  it  had  split  off  and  lay  in 
the  yard.  She  stood  silent,  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  for 
some  minutes.  Then  she  began  to  cough  and  to  shiver. 
Abbie  looked  about  her  and  saw  William  coming.  She 
beckoned  to  him. 

Nan  had  been  standing  at  the  library  window.  It  was 
really  too  early  for  Octavia,  and  Nan  was  compassion 
ately  regarding  the  ruined  tree.  "  There 's  Miss  Hitty," 
she  said  suddenly  to  herself.  "  She  has  no  business  to 
be  out  in  this  storm.  I'm  going  to  get  her  in."  Before 
anybody  could  have  stopped  her,  Nan  had  darted  out 
into  the  rain,  just  as  she  was. 

She  met  them,  William  and  Abbie  supporting  Miss 
Hitty,  halfway  to  the  house.  Miss  Hitty  smiled  and 
her  lips  moved.  Nan  bent  down. 

"Yes,  you  dear,"  she  said.  "It  shall  be  all  patched 
up,  with  bricks  and  cement,  as  good  as  new.  Come 

371 


OLD  HARBOR 


in  quickly.  You  are  going  to  your  very  own  room, 
Miss  Hitty,  and  I'm  going  to  send  right  off  for  Miss 
Susie." 

"Well,  Nancy, dear,"  whispered  Miss  Hitty,  "I'm 
glad." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

Miss  SUSIE  came,  in  the  closed  carriage,  bringing 
with  her  some  of  Miss  Kitty's  things.  Nan  gave  her  her 
old  room,  too.  There  were  rooms  enough  in  the  old 
house.  Miss  Susie  fluttered  about,  her  sole  aim  being 
to  be  of  some  use  and  comfort  to  Hitty,  and  her  sole 
wish,  beyond  that,  to  be  reassured  as  to  her  condition. 
Doctor  Olcott,  poor  man,  could  give  her  but  little  reas 
surance  ;  he  only  patted  her  on  the  back,  as  if  she  had 
been  a  child,  and  mumbled  something  about  being  as 
cheerful  as  she  could.  Miss  Susie  went  to  her  own  room 
and  cried  softly. 

Nan  waylaid  him  as  he  was  going  out.  "  Well  ? "  she 
asked. 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "Not  well,  at  all,  Miss 
Hedge,"  he  said.  "  Damn  it,  it  is  n't  well.  Be  as  good 
to  her  as  you  can,  my  dear,  for  we  are  all  as  fond  of  her 
as  you  are."  Nan's  eyes  filled.  "  Hitty  Tilton  is  a  won 
derful  old  woman,  with  an  extraordinary  amount  of 
vitality  and  a  will  that  has  kept  her  alive  for  the  last  six 
months,"  continued  the  doctor;  "but  she's  as  stubborn 
as  a  mule.  Damn  it,  there  is  n't  a  mule  that  can  hold 
a  candle  to  her.  She  may  pull  through  this  yet,  but  I 
won't  hold  out  any  false  hopes ;  I  don't  expect  it.  Damn 
it!  Good-by."  The  doctor  went  out  hastily,  and  shut 

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OLD   HARBOR 


the  door  softly  after  him,  —  Nan  knew  that  he  would 
have  liked  to  slam  it,  —  and  ambled  down  the  walk  to 
the  Polar  Bear. 

For  the  next  two  days  their  hopes  and  their  fears 
alternated ;  then  their  hopes  dwindled.  Nan  was  sitting 
beside  Miss  Hitty,  on  the  late  afternoon  of  the  second 
day. 

"Nancy,  dear,"  whispered  Miss  Hitty. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Nan.   "  Have  you  any  pain  ? " 

"Not  a  mite,"  was  the  cheerful  reply.  " Nancy,  will 
you  look  after  Susie  ?  Is  it  too  much  to  ask  ?" 

"  No,  you  dear.  She 's  come  home,  and  here  she  stays, 
and  so  do  you.  You  '11  get  well,  Miss  Hitty,  if  you  only 
make  up  your  mind  to." 

Miss  Hitty  smiled  merrily.  "  Fiddlesticks,  my  dear ! " 
she  said,  with  some  approach  to  a  return  of  her  old 
energy.  "Stuff  and  nonsense!  If  Doctor  Olcott  told 
you  that,  he's  a  fool,  and  you  can  tell  him  I  said  so.  He 
knows  better." 

She  was  silent  for  a  minute,  gathering  strength.  Nan 
made  no  reply,  but  pressed  the  withered  old  hand  she 
held. 

"I'm  a  stubborn  old  woman,  Nancy.  But  if  I've 
got  to  take  as  much  care  of  myself  as  though  I  was 
a  china  doll,  I  don't  want  to  live.  Thank  you  about 
Susie,  Nancy,  dear.  There 's  one  more  thing  I  want  to 
ask." 

Nan  bent  low.  "Anything,  Miss  Hitty,  that  you 
would  like,  I  promise." 

374 


OLD  HARBOR 


Again  Miss  Hitty  smiled.  "Don't  be  rash,  my  dear. 
I  wanted  to  ask  you  if  you  would  be  willing  to  find 
room  for  our  furniture.  There's  a  good  deal  of  it,  but 
they're  all  nice  things.  I  want  to  get  them  back  in  the 
old  house,  and  I  want  you  to  have  'em,  Nancy ;  that  is, 
if  you  want  'em." 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  have  anything  that  has  been 
yours,"  Nan  replied,  smiling  through  her  tears,  "  after 
you  have  got  through  with  it.  You  and  Miss  Susie  can 
use  the  things  here." 

"Oh,  I'm  through  with  'em,"  said  Miss  Hitty,  dryly. 

"  Can't  you  find  anything  harder  to  ask  me  ? " 

"  I  guess  I  can,  Nancy.  Will  you  send  word  to  Mary 
Catherwood  and  Jack  that  I  'd  like  to  see  them  ?  Jack  's 
at  home,  is  n't  he  ?  This  is  his  day." 

Nan  nodded.  "I  believe  he  is,"  she  said.  "But — • 
but,  Miss  Hitty,  if  it's  anything  to  do  with  me,  please 
don't." 

"  Fiddlesticks,  my  dear ! "  said  the  old  woman.  "  Stuff 
and  nonsense !  Why  should  it  be  ?  If  you  won't  send, 
Nancy,  I'll  have  to  ask  somebody  else.  But  I  guess 
to-morrow  '11  do." 

So  Nan  sighed  and  sent.  WTien  the  morrow  came, 
Mrs.  Catherwood  and  Jack  appeared.  What  Miss  Hitty 
had  to  say  to  Mrs.  Catherwood  that  was  of  such  im 
portance,  I  do  not  know.  It  did  not  take  long  for  her 
to  say  it  —  not  more  than  five  minutes.  When  Mrs. 
Catherwood  came  out,  looking  anxious  but  relieved, 
too,  Nan  was  waiting  for  her. 

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OLD  HARBOR 


She  did  not  waste  any  time.  "  How  does  she  seem 
to  you,  Mrs.  Catherwood?"  she  asked.  "I  have  been 
seeing  her  constantly,  of  course,  and  can't  judge." 

"She  seems  surprisingly  strong,"  Mrs.  Catherwood 
replied ;  "  much  better  than  I  had  any  reason  to  expect. 
I  really  don't  see  why  we  should  give  up  hope  yet,  Nan, 
dear."  Then  Mrs.  Catherwood  flushed  and  smiled. 
"  You  must  pardon  me.  The  name  slipped  out  before 
I  knew  it.  But  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  let  me 
keep  on  using  it.  You  are  one  of  us,  you  know,  and  you 
have  been  very  good  to  Miss  Hitty  and  Miss  Susie  and 
to  my  Jack.  Do  you  mind  ?" 

Nan's  eyes  filled  quickly,  and  her  lip  quivered  a 
little.  "  It  would  make  me  very  happy  if  you  would,"  she 
answered.  "I  have  wan  ted  so  much  to  be  one  of  you." 
She  gave  a  little  flicker  of  a  smile.  "  But  I  don't  deserve 
any  credit  for  being  good  to  Miss  Hitty  and  Miss  Susie. 
Nobody  could  help  it;  and  I  have  denied  myself  no 
thing.  I  only  hope  Miss  Hitty  will  be  willing  to  stay 
here  if  she  gets  well." 

"  Let  us  hope  that  she  will.  There  is  no  reason  for 
giving  up  yet."  Mrs.  Catherwood  put  an  arm  around 
Nan  impulsively  and  kissed  her. 

Meanwhile  Miss  Hitty  was  talking  to  Jack.  She 
spoke  very  low,  —  that  was  to  be  expected,  —  but  with 
vigor.  Knowing  Miss  Hitty,  you  would  have  expected 
that,  too. 

"Well,  Jack  Catherwood,"  she  said,  "you  have  gone 
and  got  into  a  pretty  mess  with  our  Nancy.  Explain 

376 


OLD  HARBOR 


yourself,   sir.     What  do   you   mean   by   making  her 
unhappy?" 

"  But,  Miss  Hitty,  —  "  Jack  began,  smiling  and 
stammering. 

"  Oh,  I  know  just  what  you  would  like  to  say,"  said 
Miss  Hitty,  stopping  him.  "It  would  be  a  waste  of 
time  to  let  you.  Of  course,  it's  her  fault;  we'll  take 
that  for  granted.  What  do  you  propose  to  do  about 
it?" 

"  I  was  n't  going  to  say  that  at  all,"  Jack  returned. 
"  I  Ve  no  doubt  it  is  my  fault,  although  I  don't  see  how. 
But  neither  do  I  see  how  — 

"  Oh,  fiddlesticks !  Never  mind  whose  fault  it  is,  and 
never  mind  how.  Make  it  up  with  her.  She  '11  meet  you 
more  than  halfway.  I'm  very  fond  of  Nancy,  Jack, 
even  more  fond  of  her  than  I  am  of  you.  I  came  very 
near  being  your  grandmother,  Jack.  If  I  had  n't  been 
so  stiff-necked  and  stubborn,  bothering  about  such 
unimportant  matters  as  whose  fault  it  was,  I  should 
have  been  saved  many  an  unhappy  day.  I  just  won't 
have  Nancy  going  through  my  experience.  But  would 
you  like  to  make  it  up  with  her?" 

"Very  much,  Miss  Hitty,"  acknowledged  Jack, 
soberly. 

"  Well,  then,  go  and  do  it  right  away.  Your  mother 
won't  object.  I  've  been  talking  to  her.  Now,  run  along. 
I'm  tired.  It's  all  because  of  you,  you  bad  boy." 

"  I  hope  not,  grandmother,"  said  Jack ;  "  I  hope  not." 
He  bent  over  her  and  kissed  her. 

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OLD   HARBOR 


Miss  Hitty  smiled.  "  There,  there ! "  she  said,  "  now 
run  along.  Tell  her  that  I  'm  going  to  sleep,  and  don't 
want  to  be  disturbed  for  an  hour." 

Miss  Hitty  closed  her  eyes,  and  Jack  went  out.  He 
saw  Nan  down  the  hall,  and  caught  her  before  she  could 
reach  her  own  room. 

"Come,  Nan,"  he  said.  "I  have  something  to  tell 
you.  Miss  Hitty  is  going  to  sleep,  and  she  wanted  me  to 
say  that  she  did  n't  wish  to  be  disturbed  for  an  hour." 
Nan  smiled  faintly  at  the  transparent  ruse;  but  she 
went.  Jack  stopped  before  the  door  of  the  library.  "  Is 
there  anybody  in  here?" 

Nan  shook  her  head.  Jack  drew  her  inside  and 
closed  the  door. 

What  passed  behind  that  closed  door,  I  do  not  know. 
Miss  Hitty's  hour  was  very  nearly  up  when  those  two 
came  out  again,  and  Nan  looked  very  happy  and  so  did 
Jack.  Jack  kissed  her  at  the  door,  —  it  is  to  be  pre 
sumed  that  I  shall  not  be  far  wrong  if  I  say  that  he 
kissed  her  again  at  the  door,  —  after  making  sure  that 
nobody  was  in  sight.  And  Nan,  —  she  would  not  have 
cared  whether  anybody  was  in  sight  or  not,  —  she  put 
her  arms  about  his  neck  and  returned  his  kiss. 

"  There ! "  she  whispered.  "  It  would  never  do  for  me 
to  keep  it." 

"I  shall  stay,"  Jack  said,  "until  —  until  there  is  no 
need." 

"  Will  you  come  in  every  day  ? " 

Jack  smiled.  "Well,  rather!"  he  said.  "I  have  no 
378 


OLD   HARBOR 


doubt  I  shall  be  in  several  times  a  day  —  three  or  four. 
Good-by,  dear." 

"Good-by."  Nan  smiled  at  him  as  he  went  down 
the  steps.  Then  she  turned  and  ran  up  the  stairs  to  Miss 
Kitty's  room.  She  was  sure  that  it  would  be  good  for 
Miss  Hitty  to  hear  the  news ;  not  too  much  of  it. 

Miss  Hitty  was  awake,  and  she  did  not  know  Nan. 
Her  mind  seemed  to  be  wandering  about  among  the 
mazes  of  that  time,  more  than  half  a  century  before, 
when  she  had  had  her  own  misunderstanding  and  had 
been  too  stubborn  to  clear  it  up.  Nan  was  alarmed  and 
sent  for  Doctor  Olcott. 

Thereafter,  for  nearly  a  week,  the  good  doctor  was  at 
Nan's  even  more  than  Jack  was.  He  got  a  nurse  for 
Miss  Hitty ;  not  a  trained  nurse, —  there  were  no  trained 
nurses  in  Old  Harbor,  —  but  just  a  plain,  middle-aged 
nurse.  The  ways  of  that  nurse  did  not  meet  with  Miss 
Hitty's  approval.  Miss  Hitty  had  her  lucid  moments, 
and  during  one  of  them,  she  seemed  to  want  to  say 
something.  Nan  bent  low. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  she  asked. 

"  That  nurse  is  a  fool,"  whispered  Miss  Hitty.  "  Send 
her  away." 

Nan  smiled  at  the  characteristic  speech  and  sent  the 
nurse  away. 

"Damn  it,"  said  Doctor  Olcott,  explosively,  when 
Nan  told  him ;  "  just  like  her,  just  like  her !  But  what 
are  we  going  to  do  now  ?  Nurses  don't  grow  on  every 
bush." 

379 


OLD   HARBOR 


"I  will  take  care  of  her,"  said  Nan. 

"You,  my  dear?"  asked  the  doctor.  "It  is  hard 
work,  hard  work.  It  may  wear  you  out,  —  the  hours 
and  the  anxiety." 

"  It  won't  wear  me  out,"  Nan  replied,  smiling  quietly. 
"  If  a  nurse  can  stand  it,  I  can.  Perhaps  Miss  Susie  can 
help  me." 

Doctor  Olcott  shook  his  head.  "She  is  willing 
enough ;  anxious  enough.  But  I  doubt  the  wisdom  of 
it.  She  would  n't  be  much  help." 

"  Don't  deny  me,  doctor.  I  '11  make  it  go,  somehow. 
I'm  sure  that  Miss  Hitty  would  like  it." 

"  Like  it ! "  growled  the  doctor.  "  Of  course  she  'd  like 
it.  Who  would  n't?  You're  a  jewel,  my  dear.  Jack 
Catherwood  should  be  a  proud  man." 

Nan  blushed  very  prettily.   "He  is,"  she  said. 

The  doctor  was  just  going  out.  He  stuck  his  head  in 
at  the  door  again. 

"  I  'm  a  fool,"  he  said.  "  I  '11  get  Hattie.  It 's  just  her 
chance,  and  she's  just  the  woman." 

He  got  Hattie;  and  she  stood  watch  with  Nan,  and, 
incidentally,  she  came  to  know  her.  She  knew  Nan 
better,  in  those  few  days  and  nights,  than  Octavia  knew 
her,  after  all  her  years  of  acquaintance. 

There  came  a  night  when  Harriet,  in  giving  up  her 
place  at  Miss  Kitty's  side,  paused  at  the  door.  She  was 
smiling. 

"She  is  sleeping  quietly,"  she  said.  "I  have  hopes, 
Nan." 

380 


OLD   HARBOR 


The  tears  came  into  Nan's  eyes.  "I'm  glad,"  she 
sighed.  "Oh,  I'm  glad!" 

Miss  Harriet  kissed  her ;  and  then,  as  if  ashamed  of 
such  an  unaccustomed  display  of  emotion,  she  passed 
out  quickly. 

Daylight  was  coming  in  under  the  close-drawn  shades 
and  around  the  shutters  when  Miss  Hitty  opened  her 
eyes  and  smiled  at  Nan,  sitting  there.  Nan  smiled  back 
at  her. 

"Now  you're  all  right,  dear,"  she  said. 

"Nancy,"  returned  Miss  Hitty,  faintly,  "I've  about 
decided  to  get  well.  I've  changed  my  mind.  It'll  be 
a  good  joke  on  the  doctor,  and  I  want  to  see  you  and 
Jack  married  before  I  go." 

"I'm  thankful,"  said  Nan.  And  she  put  her  head 
down  on  the  bed  and  cried  for  a  minute,  softly. 

The  doctor  came  very  early.  He  had  more  than  half 
expected  to  be  sent  for  during  the  night,  and  he  had  lain 
awake  for  hours,  awaiting  the  sound  of  his  bell.  It 
would  never  do  to  tell  that  to  the  profession;  though 
his  patients,  I  am  afraid,  were  so  lost  to  the  sense  of 
fitness  that  they  would  only  have  thought  the  better 
of  him  for  it.  Nan  was  waiting  for  him. 

"Well?"  he  growled.  "You  didn't  send  for  me. 
How  is  she?  Living?" 

Then  Nan  told  him.  "She  has  changed  her  mind, 
doctor.  She  is  going  to  get  well.  She  said  so." 

The  doctor's  face  broke  into  a  smile.  "  Damn  it ! "  he 
said.  "Damn  it!  The  old  jade!"  He  laughed  and 

381 


OLD   HARBOR 


went  wheezing  and  chuckling  up  the  stairs,  damning 
it  delightedly  at  every  step. 

Miss  Kitty's  recovery  was  as  rapid  as  was  to  have 
been  expected,  under  the  circumstances ;  and  that  is  not 
saying  much.  But  Nan,  thinking  it  best  that  her  bridges 
should  be  burned  before  she  was  well  enough  to  use 
them  again,  had  her  furniture  moved  one  day.  In  spite 
of  carefully  closed  doors  and  explicit  instructions  to  the 
men,  it  was  impossible  to  keep  from  Miss  Hitty  the  fact 
that  something  was  up. 

"Nancy,"  she  said,  "what  in  the  world  are  you  up 
to?" 

Nan  laughed.    "Oh,  nothing  of  consequence." 

"It  sounds  like  men  tramping  through  the  house," 
continued  Miss  Hitty,  "and  trying  to  keep  quiet." 

Nan  laughed  again,  merrily.    "So  it  does." 

"  What  are  they  doing,  Nancy  ?  "  Miss  Hitty  looked 
sharply  at  the  merry  girl.  "Nancy,  I  do  believe  that 
you've  gone  and  had  my  things  moved." 

"  You  don't  have  to  guess  again,"  said  Nan.  "  Right, 
the  first  time.  Forgive  me,  dear.  I  was  afraid  that  you 
might  change  your  mind  about  it.  I  warn  you,  I  shall 
make  it  as  hard  as  I  can  for  you  to  do  that." 

Miss  Hitty  put  out  a  hand  to  Nan's.  "  No,"  she  said, 
"  I  shan't  change  my  mind  about  that.  Maybe  you  '11 
come  to  wish  I  had.  You  might  just  tell  those  men  that 
they  don't  have  to  keep  quiet.  They  can't,  anyway,  and 
it  makes  me  nervous  to  have  them  trying." 

So  Nan  went  down  to  tell  the  men.  Seeing  the  door 
382 


OLD   HARBOR 


of  the  drawing-room  ajar,  she  looked  inside  before  she 
shut  it.  What  she  saw  almost  took  her  breath  away. 

"  Well ! "  she  said.    "  Jack  Haight ! " 

For  there  stood  Octavia,  her  head  on  the  breast  of  a 
tall  man  with  a  handsome  face  that  was  marked  with 
many  fine  lines.  It  was  a  handsome  face,  as  I  have 
said,  but  it  seemed  to  repel  Nan;  a  face  that  was  full 
of  scorn,  and  doubt  —  of  something  —  the  motives  of 
others,  perhaps,  as  well  as  his  own.  But  I  do  not  know ; 
I  did  not  know  Jack  Haight.  Nan  did,  it  is  to  be  sup 
posed. 

"Oh,  how  d'  ye  do,  Nan,"  he  remarked.  "Pardon 
my  not  offering  my  hand.  As  you  see,  it  is  otherwise 
occupied." 

Nan  inclined  her  head.  Octavia  turned  to  her  a  face 
full  of  happiness.  "You  see,  Nan,"  she  said,  "I  shall 
be  going  this  afternoon.  You  don't  need  me  any  more." 

Nan  smiled.  "I  see,  Octavia,"  she  replied  gently. 
"  May  you  keep  your  happiness ! " 

As  Nan  went  out,  she  heard  Jack  Haight  laughing. 
It  was  not  a  pleasant  laugh. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

PERHAPS  you  have  seen  a  copy  of  "War-Time 
Memories,"  by  Francis  Catherwood,  late  Colonel  of 
Cavalry.  It  is  Harriet's  joy  and  pride. 

"  That,  now,"  she  says  to  her  friends,  when  she  is 
showing  them  her  autographed  copy,  —  "  that  is  worth 
while."  Which  is  as  much  as  to  say  that  this  kind  of 
thing  is  not ;  concerning  which  point  there  may  well  be 
an  honest  difference  of  opinion  and  her  view  of  it  the 
right  one.  She  has  made  her  remark  to  me.  She  has  not 
made  it,  I  have  reason  to  believe,  to  William  Ransome 

—  she  wants  to  be  considerate ;  but  he  has  no  illusions 
as  to  her  opinion.   It  does  not  disturb  him. 

Jack  Catherwood  found  the  manuscript  of  "War- 
Time  Memories"  while  he  was  rummaging  through 
his  father's  desk  after  something  else,  on  the  day  the 
"Susan"  sailed  away  with  Eben.  He  seized  upon  the 
pile  of  written  sheets,  and  held  them  up  and  shook  them 
at  his  father. 

"  So  you  've  been  at  it,  dad  ! "  he  cried.  "  Contraband 

—  plainly  contraband.    Findings,  keepings.    I  shan't 
give  up  my  prize."   He  laughed. 

Colonel  Catherwood  started  to  take  his  precious 
papers  away  from  Jack.  Then  he  laughed,  too.  "  Well, 
Jackie,"  he  said,  "  you  may  take  them  if  you  want  them. 

384 


OLD   HARBOR 


I  have  had  my  fun  in  doing  them,  and  they're  fin 
ished.  If  you  find  them  good  for  anything,  I  shall  be 
very  glad.  I  don't  suppose  they  are." 

Jack  was  reminded  of  his  half-forgotten  intention  to 
try  to  induce  William  Ransome  to  publish,  too.  He 
went  to  William  and  used  all  his  powers  of  persuasion ; 
and  William  listened  with  a  smile  upon  his  face. 

"  I  shall  have  to  refer  you  to  my  wife,"  he  said,  when 
Jack  had  finished.  "She  is  my  agent.  I  may  say,  in 
confidence,  that  she  is  my  manager,  as  well.  Don't  let 
her  know  that  I  know  it." 

Abbie,  who  was  present,  blushed  —  William  always 
liked  to  make  her  blush ;  he  contended  that  her  blush 
was  lovely  —  and  protested.  "William!"  she  cried. 
"  When  you  know  that  the  only  reason  I  married  you 
was  so  that  you  should  take  proper  care  of  yourself! 
Gratitude!" 

"I  am  afraid  that  gratitude  has  no  place,  my  dear; 
no  standing  at  all,"  said  William. 

For  Abbie,  true  to  the  determination  she  had  ex 
pressed  to  Miss  Hitty,  had  married  him  within  the 
month.  But  all  this  bother  about  manuscripts  and 
stories,  which  are  of  no  manner  of  consequence,  came 
after  the  sailing  of  the  "Susan." 

The  "Susan"  sailed  on  the  tenth  of  November. 
Colonel  Catherwood  was  there,  of  course;  and  Eben, 
equally  of  course.  The  ship  could  scarcely  sail  without 
her  mate.  Indeed,  Eben  had  been  as  busy  as  a  mate 
should  be  in  getting  her  ready.  Eben  had  changed 

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OLD   HARBOR 


much  in  those  few  weeks ;  and  if  there  was  still,  occa 
sionally,  a  trace  of  the  fear  which  had  become  a  habit, 
it  was  but  a  trace,  and  the  colonel  had  faith  that  it 
would  disappear.  It  takes  more  than  a  few  weeks  to 
get  rid  of  a  habit  of  years'  standing. 

They  were  all  there  to  see  Eben  sail,  even  to  Miss 
Hitty,  who  had  been  driven  down  with  Nan  and  Miss 
Susie ;  for  it  was  one  of  those  warm  and  beautiful  days 
that  we  sometimes  have  in  November.  They  all  gath 
ered  about  the  carriage  —  all  but  Eben.  A  mate  has 
no  time  for  standing  about  carriages  when  his  ship  is 
sailing.  Clanky  and  Joe  stood  a  little  apart,  with  Mrs. 
Loughery,  who  looked  somewhat  mournful,  as  was  only 
fitting.  She  even  had  on  a  black  dress,  in  honor  of 
Mike.  Had  he  not  kept  out  of  jail,  and  died  —  so  far  as 
anybody  knew,  unless  Clanky  knew;  and  he  had  not 
told  —  and  died,  so  far  as  anybody  knew,  in  the  honor 
able  pursuit  of  an  honorable  calling  ?  She  had  not 
thought  it  best  to  inquire  too  closely  about  that.  It  was 
best  to  let  sleeping  dogs  lie ;  a  comfortable  habit  that  has 
much  to  recommend  it.  On  the  whole,  Mrs.  Loughery 
seemed  relieved;  which  was  but  natural,  too,  in  the 
circumstances. 

Eben  came  ashore,  at  the  last  minute,  to  say  a  brief 
good-by.  He  shook  hands  with  Miss  Hitty,  who  leaned 
out  to  pat  his  shoulder  and  to  say  a  few  words ;  and  he 
had  to  submit  to  being  kissed  by  Mrs.  Catherwood,  and 
Miss  Harriet,  who  displayed  no  emotion,  but  presented 
a  sisterly  cheek.  Constance  called  out  to  him,  gayly, 

386 


OLD  HARBOR 


and  he  smiled  at  her  as  he  replied.  He  had  called  on 
Abbie  and  William  the  evening  before,  a  distinction 
which  surprised  and  pleased  them.  Now,  he  went  to 
Doctor  Olcott  and  took  his  hand  in  a  close  grasp,  but 
said  nothing.  The  doctor  smiled  at  him  and  said  no 
thing,  in  his  turn.  Then  Eben  turned  to  Clanky  and 
Joe  where  they  stood  waiting. 

Clanky  and  Joe  had  known  Eben  better  than  any 
body  else  in  Old  Harbor,  and  he  seemed  to  have  more 
to  say  to  them  than  to  any  of  the  others.  Clanky  Beg 
was  crying, — he  made  no  effort  to  conceal  it, — and 
Eben  put  his  arm  about  his  shoulders  and  talked  to  him 
for  some  minutes.  I  do  not  know  what  he  said,  but 
Clanky 's  blubbering  ceased  and  his  face  brightened. 
Eben  said  good-by  to  the  smiling  Joe  and  to  Mrs. 
Loughery,  who  overwhelmed  him  with  her  blessings. 
Then,  with  a  shake  of  Colonel  Catherwood's  hand  and 
a  wave  to  them  all,  he  was  gone. 

They  watched  him  as  he  wrent  up  over  the  side  like  a 
cat.  The  anchor  had  already  been  hove  short,  and,  as 
he  came  aboard,  they  could  hear  the  slow  clank  of  the 
chain.  The  jibs  went  up,  one  at  a  time,  and  the  clank 
of  the  chain  continued,  and  they  saw  the  shank  of  the 
anchor  rise  out  of  the  water  like  some  ungainly  sea- 
animal  with  great  blobs  of  mud  on  his  head ;  and,  the 
wind  being  gentle  and  fair,  and  blowing  straight  out  of 
the  harbor,  the  "  Susan  "  sailed  slowly  out,  without  help, 
unfolding  one  sail  after  another  as  she  went,  with  great 
deliberation.  There  was  no  hurry.  Eben  waved  to  them 

387 


OLD  HARBOR 


again,  and  they  watched  the  ship  until  she  was  far  out 
upon  the  broad  ocean  with  all  her  wings  spread,  dim 
and  vague;  a  dream  ship. 

Doctor  Olcott  spoke  to  Miss  Harriet.  "  So  you  '11  be 
living  alone  again,  Hattie." 

She  turned  to  him  and  smiled.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  —  it 
seemed  to  the  doctor  that  she  spoke  with  some  satisfac 
tion,  —  "  yes,  I  shall  live  alone,  now ;  alone  with  my 
silver  and  my  china  and  my  habits.  And  I  '11  tell  you, 
doctor,  in  confidence,  that  I  think  I  shall  get  a  cat. 
Miss  Wetherbee  is  not  very  near." 

And  the  doctor  laughed  and  went  to  look  for  the 
Polar  Bear.  On  his  way  up  the  street,  taken  by  a 
sudden  impulse,  he  stopped  at  MacLean's.  That 
gentleman  was  at  his  door,  with  his  nose  flattened 
against  the  glass.  He  made  way  when  he  saw  the  doc 
tor  clambering  out  of  his  buggy,  and  he  opened  the 
door. 

The  doctor  mounted  the  three  steps,  smiling,  and 
to  MacLean's  unbounded  surprise  and  somewhat  to 
his  discomfort,  gave  the  little  man  a  resounding  clap 
upon  the  back. 

"  Ouch ! "  he  cried.  "  But,  doctor,  it '11  be  a  love-pat, 
—  nae  mair?" 

"No  more  than  a  love-pat,"  the  doctor  replied. 
"  Why  should  it  be  ?  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Mac- 
Lean?" 

"The  ship's  sailed,  I  tak'  it,"  said  MacLean. 
"That'll  be  the  last  o'  Eben  Joyce,  I'm  thinkin'."  He 

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OLD  HARBOR 


wagged  his  head  wisely.  "  They  '11  a'  be  gey  fou  's.  But 
they'll  be  happy  eneuch,  I  mak'  na  doubt.  An*  that 
Nan  Hedge,  I  didna  think  it  o'  her,  that  she'd  be  sae 
guid  ta'  puir  Miss  Hitty.  I  didna  think  it  o'  her.  It  '11 
be  aye  t'  her  ereedit." 


DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 


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